


Lineage

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [11]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Adoption, Air combat, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Combat, Death Watch (Star Wars), Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Explosions, F/M, Fighter Pilots, Gen, Jedi Politics (Star Wars), Jedi Shadows, Jedi Temple, Mandalore, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian Jedi, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Mission Fic, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Physical Abuse, Politics, Spies, Spycraft, Swearing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, War, Worldbuilding, Young Obi-Wan Kenobi, man-handling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: What we pass down is not always picked up by those who come after us.In some cases, this makes them better than we were.In some cases, they are worse.





	1. Chapter 1

Adonai Kryze marches through the halls of the Royal Stronghold of Keldabe, his home since he was chosen as the Jorad’alor – the voice of the people. Like the capitol itself, the Royal Stronghold was an ecclectic mix of construction. The floors were original wood, carefully maintained and preserved for generations, the foundations all stone and beskar iron, as were some of the older halls and the kitchens, but most of the common areas were had been renovated with plastoid, duracrete, and transparisteel, all of it molded together to feel enduring and timeless. It was formidable and artful and he was fond of it – this was where he has raised his daughters, after all, but it was not _home_. Too large, too empty, too orderly – utterly unlike the rest of Keldabe in that regard.

His blood is boiling after another _useless_ day spent mediating between the Lords of the Old Clans and the Lords from Sundari, representing the New Mandalorians and _their_ capitol city.

After that, the quiet of the halls is a welcome relief, and he nods in respect to every man and woman on guard in his household as he passes them and heads to his own rooms.

He takes a deep breath when the door closes behind him, forcing his hands to unclench and to steady. His own temper does him little favor, these days. He listens to the quiet, and pauses, scanning his surroundings. Something is off.

Nothing seems to have been moved, but his senses are telling him things are not right, and Adonai steps further into the room.

The arched ceilings were beautiful, but he’d hated them from the day he moved in.

Weight falls hard on him from above, buckling him to a knee as an arm wraps around his throat and an armored knee digs sharply into his back. Adonai jerks his hands up and freezes when his attacker speaks.

“You never used to be so easily beaten, Lord Kryze.” Fett growls, and Adonai closes his eyes, letting out a soft huff before opening them again, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.

“Beaten?” Adonai inquires, and snaps an switch with his thumb, the bracers on his wrists releasing a swarm of tiny flare-bots, incendiary bright and enough to overwhelms the sensors on a helmet, blinding Fett as Adonai breaks his hold, rolls forward, drawing his blaster from his boot, and turns to plant two bolts in the soft gap between the armor plates on Fett’s leg.

The first one misses the mark, hits the beskar’gam, and strangely fizzles out, but the second one makes the mark.

Fett curses as that leg buckles and yanks off his helmet. The two of them glare at each other.

“You may have been his son,” Adonai says sharply. “But you weren’t Jaster Meeral’s only student.”

Fett growls. “Jorad’alor.” He acknowledges, shifting his weight and hissing when he tests the wound with two fingers.

Adonai stares coldly back at him for a long beat of silence, and something in the other man’s gaze shutters.

“Mand’alor.” Adonai finally acknowledges, the point clearly made. “To what do I owe this privilege?” He stands, strides over, and offers Fett a hand up. Fett takes it and stands with a grunt, forcing a steady stride as he follows Adonai over to the small sitting area that separates his private bedrooms from the hallway and takes an offered seat.

“Stop sending bounty hunters after me.” Fett says tersely, fishing a quick-stick of flesh-plast from his belt and eyeing the sear through his under-armor with distaste. Adonair can see blood oozing from it. “They’re bad tails and they are getting in my way.”

Adonai walks over to his shelves and fetches two glasses and a his bottle of Mandalorian spiced rum from its gift case. He pours, and offers one to Fett, who nods towards the table beside him, hands busy. Adonai sets the glass down and finds his own seat.

“What else was I supposed to do? You ditched the comm-line the jed’ika gave me.” He says.

Fett gives him a look full of temper. Adonai returns it. “I _need_ the Mand’alor, Fett.” He says sharply. “Our people need the Mand’alor. And you’re what we’ve got.”

Fett drops his gaze, hands stilling. “I haven’t been the Mand’alor since Galidraan.” He mutters.

“There has to be a Mand’alor.” Adnoai hisses. “There is no Mandalore without _the_ Mand’alor, Fett. Education and armor, self-defense, our clans, our language, our leader— _that_ is the Resol’nare. That is who we are.”

“I know that!” Fett snaps.

“Then fucking do your duty, Fett!” Adonai rocks to his feet, glaring down at the other man. “You owe a debt to me. You don’t just get to decide not to pay it. I am the voice of our people, but you are our leader. And you left it all on me – and I don’t mean after Galidraan, Fett. By the _ka’ra_ , I thought you were _dead_.” Adonai turns away and sets his glass down, clenching and unclenching his other hand, seeking calm. “But after the _jetiise_ found you? After you were freed? You should have come to me. You owed me that much at least. I was never meant to stand in your place and I have done it for _years_ , because there was no one to follow you. No one to take that title after you.”

Adonai seethes through his teeth, because he _understands_. He does. Galidraan was…horrific, even by mandalorian standards. And Galidraan wasn’t just the slaughter that happened there, but the one that followed it. The True Mandalorians were decimated, shattered, and Death Watch wasted no chances in hunting them down and rooting them out. Vod, families, children. They wanted to no one left to fulfill a blood vengeance, or to fulfill Meeral’s legacy.

Some found safety in other Clans, guarded too well for Death Watch to strike. But others were flushed out and murdered, and Adonai paid their blood debts for them. Death Watch backed off when Adonai forced the Old Clans to act, to push back, and he caught and executed Death Watch commandoes himself for their crimes. But time dragged on, Death Watch went to ground, and the New Mandalorians demanded that the Old Clans stand down their overt military posture. Eventually, with the New Mandalorians refusing to allow what they called his ‘ongoing violent crusade’, believing he was fermenting conditions for an outright civil war, and with the Old Clans were divided, returning to petty squabbles and age old grievances and weakening their position internally, he was forced to.

And so the stalemate festered.

“I need time.” Fett says harshly, looking up.

“I don’t have it, Fett.” Adonai breathes out, stepping back to fall back down into his seat, rubbing his brow with one hand. “Mandalore is on the brink.”

“Find it.” Fett demands, the lines of his face hard in half-light. Darker and deeper, his dark eyes burning bright. “I am not abandoning our people. Not again. But I am not ready for what you are asking of me. Not yet. And I will not compromise on that.”

Mandalorians did not _do_ compromise. Not well, at least.

Adonai stares him down, and Fett is resolute, more the man Adonai remembers him being.

“ _An ibac ni cuy, par ner Manda’lore_.” Adonai sighs, nodding. _All that I am, for my King._ “I’ll stop sending bounty hunters after you.” He says.

Fett nods sharply, before taking a swig of the glass Adonai gave him. He pauses appreciatively, and then swallows. Adonai quirks a lip, taking a sip himself and enjoying the smooth, spicy flavor and the flooded heat that accompanied it.

Adonai taps his glass thoughtfully, eyeing the other man. “You know, my daughter recently acquired a new dancing tutor.” Adonai lifts a pale brow. Fett lifts a dark one in turn, challenging. “When she commed me from Coruscant, I could honestly say I don’t ever recollect hiring one.”

“I think I would leave all matters regarding your child between you and her, Lord Kryze.” Fett says, face utterly impassive. “A _buir’s_ role it sacred, after all, and I’ll not do you the insult of offering my opinion on how you raise her.”

Adonai lets his brow drop, mulling over his glass, and then glancing up. “I made no accusations. I simply appreciate the woman’s _excellent_ qualifications.”

“Then you hired well.” Fett comments neutrally.

Adonai huffs lightly. “I suppose I did.” He murmurs, and takes a drink.

~*~

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath, the stun-baton just under his chin, forcing his head up, his hand locked around Satine’s wrist.

“Well,” He comments tightly, very, very glad the stun feature wasn’t active. “ I see you’ve finally stopped hesitating.”

He’s visited her a few times, since their return from Moia, helping her improve her self-defense while she helped him improve his mando’an vocabulary. His master allows such visits with small, pinched, worried sort of frowns that Obi-Wan hasn’t deciphered yet.

“True pacisifism is not passivity, but a deliberate choice not to invoke violence. Not to feed it. Not to commit to its cause.” Satine says, her face lightly flushed with the work out, her voice a little huskier than usual. “This includes not only thoughts, but actions. I must commit, so I commit. And I must weigh a balance on my philosophies and my ethics – to commit upon you a small harm, or to allow you to commit a greater one?”

Obi-Wan smiles at the lecture, lifting a brow. Satine flushes a little more. “I have a new tutor and she has been….expanding my understanding.”

“That sounds….good.” Obi-Wan says, and Satine relaxes, lowering the baton. Obi-Wan lets her go, stepping back and wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow.

“It’s…something.” Satine says wryly. “One of those experiences is what it feels like to actually be hit with one of these.” She twirls the baton, and Obi-Wan jerks, startled.

“What?” He demands, appalled. “Someone – _hit_ you?”

“Experience breeds understanding.” A tall green-skinned twi’lek strides into the training area they have made of what was the library in Satine’s suite in the Mandalorian embassy on Coruscant. “And she deserved it after arguing with me for _four hours_.”

“That- that is not how that works!” Obi-Wan protests. “She didn’t _deserve_ it, you can’t just _hit_ her. She’s a pacifist! She’s the daughter of the Duke!”

“Jed’ika,” The twi’lek tuts. “She wants to learn the Mandalorian way. She wants to be good enough to outmatch any opponent without doing them great harm. She can’t get to that point without first learning to do harm along the way, and if she must do harm, if she must challenge her own beliefs to commit to this course of action, then it is better she understands completely the nature of the harm she is committing. All told, a stunning shock is practically nothing. These aren’t rated high enough to actually knock a being down.” The twi’lek – the Mandalorian Twi’lek – takes the sun baton from Satine, and it crackles to buzzing life. “This particular model is designed to cause pain on contact and leave nerves temporarily numbed. It’s a good tool for momentarily disabling an opponent, though it leaves more risk on her than I’d like. ”

Obi-Wan eyes the woman, mulling over her reasoning. Her skin is a pale green and finely wrinkled with age, darker green mottling around the edges of her face and over her arms and lekku. She’s wearing a helm that wraps her brow and lekku and the horn-pods of her hearing organs, and Obi-Wan can tell it’s meant to seal a battle helmet. The helm matches the beskar’gam vambraces on her arms. There is also, quite glaringly, a tattoo of the True Mandalorian mythosuar skull on her shoulder, which is bared free given her sleeveless bodysuit. Her muscles are hard and defined beneath her skin, adding a bulk not usually seen on her species, but Obi-Wan has no doubts that it makes her any less graceful of a twi’lek, and that is a wonderfully lethal combination.

“I thought you were a dancing tutor.” The padawan comments, crossing his arms.

She smiles wickedly. “Battle _is_ a dance, jed’ika.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Mand'alor = leader of the Mandlorians - King/Queen  
> Jorad'alor - voice of the people - Duke/Duchess
> 
> Jed'ika = little jedi  
> beskar'gam = mandalorian armor  
> jetiise = jedi, plural  
> Vod = brothers/sisters, by blood or by battle.  
> Buir = parent - mother/father  
> Ka'ra = stars, council of fallen Mand'alors(myth)  
> Resol'nare = the six tenant of mandalorian culture


	2. Chapter 2

“Master _Jinn_.” Qui-Gon jerks to a halt mid-stride and turns to glare at Mace Windu, whom, without fail, calls his name like a crèchemaster scolding an errant youngling. He also awlways seems to manage to surprise Qui-Gon with his presence, often at inconvenient times, and in this case because Qui-Gon hasn’t seen him in the Temple for months.

“Master Windu.” Qui-Gon returns, drawing himself up and crossing his arms, though the stance makes his body remind him of his aches. Mae draws up short, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What the kriff have you been doing?” He remarks, taking in Qui-Gon’s rather disheveled and sweaty appearance.

“Defending myself in the onslaught that Master Naasade quaintly calls ‘sparring’.” Qui-Gon reports dryly, ignoring the fact that his legs were beginning to tremble again, fatigued after stubbornly refusing to admit he simply couldn’t match the younger jedi’s endurance. “I’d say he’s fully recovered from his injuries.”

“That’s good to hear.” Mace says, gaze slightly pinched.

“How was your mission?” Qui-Gon inquires, leaping on the chance to delay whatever dreary council business Mace has no doubt caught him for.

The pinched look intensifies.

“Sucessfull, for a given value.” Mace states, subdued. “We manage to dissolve the Stark Combine and resolve the economic crisis befalling Thyferra, but we lost Master Tyvokka in the conflict. Over corporate profits.” He all but spits the last.

“He is with the Force, my friend.” Qui-Gon lays a hand on Mace’s shoulder, squeezing, and offers him solace in the Force. Tyvokka was a great Jedi Master, and he had sat on the Council for many years, before resigning the seat to return to the field. It was his place on the Council that Mace had been elected to fill.

Mace nods quietly, drawing on that solace.

“And your padawan?” Qui-Gon inquires, hoping to change the subject to something more positive.

The lines around his eyes – haunting his face too early – lessen some. “My Knight-Elect.” He says, a little more energy to his tone. “This mission was a long series of petty catastrophe’s, and she has conducted herself with all the skill and measure of a Jedi knight and proven worthy of the title.”

Qui-Gon smiles, pleased for his friend and for his Padawan. Depa Billaba was a dedicated apprentice, if prone to pride. But humility was a lesson taught by experience, and from what Mace _isn’t_ saying, she has received experience aplenty in the last several months. “She’s young.” Qui-Gon comments. Young, but not so young as her master had been – knighted at just sixteen.

“Hence her being a Knight-Elect, and not losing her braid just yet.” Mace smriks faintly. “The Council are going to assign her to the Watchman’s circuit as a true solo mission before we proceed.”

Qui-Gon nods. The Watchman’s circuit was a tedious and drawn-out assignment well suited for testing senior padawans on the verge of knighthood. It allowed them to work independently without being completely cut off, by sending them to conduct a review of every Jedi Watchman posted on the Rim. It also gave them an eye-opener on what the farther reaches of the galaxy looked like and suffered from, and gave the Council valuable insight on the Jedi posted out there and their ongoing status, which could not always be accurately discerned by their reports. All told, it generally took a year or so to complete, if the Jedi in question was thorough in carrying out their assignment.

“Congratulations, Master Windu.” Qui-Gon smiles. “You’ve trained her well.”

Mace snorts faintly at that, no doubt thinking of the old adage ‘good teachers, _students_ make’. He then almost immediately sobers, and pins Qui-Gon with a sharp, accusatory look.

“Speaking of training, Master Jinn, why the karking hell is your padawan – your young, _junior_ padawan, _who_ _does not have the authority to submit official mission reports_ \- writing your mission reports?” Mace demands.

Qui-Gon stiffens, and internally winces, shifting his weight despite himself. “I can assure you-“ He begins, prepared to plead complete bafflement at the accusation.

“Don’t.” Mace drawls dryly. “Getting details out of you on a written report is like pulling teeth for every word. Your padawan, however – “Mace pulls a datapad from his pocket, and this, this is when Qui-Gon gets that sinking feeling, “ – writes her reports like they’re two-credit holonovels.”

Qui-Gon feels his brow pinch. “I’m certain you exaggerate-“

The datapad lights up, and Mace begins reading in a flat tone that is utterly unaffected by the low sound that escapes Qui-Gon as he continues. “ – and then Master Jinn spun, his back to the sun, which lit his silhouette afire, and the green of his lightsaber reflected in his eyes. He deflected the blaster bolt with ease, and then grinned – a devilish grin.”

Qui-Gon has shrunk in on his shoulders and dropped his face into one hand, burning with embarrassment. He couldn’t meet Mace’s eye when the Harun Kal looked back up at him and lifted a brow.

“Not only did you let your junior padawan write your mission report, you signed it and allowed it to be submitted without even reading it for yourself. _Honestly_ , Qui-Gon.” Mace recounts, aggrieved.

“I will – that is – from now on – I will of course-“ Qui-Gon says, flustered.

“No.” Mace cuts him off.

Qui-Gon blinks stupidly. “Excuse me?”

“This is the most _detailed_ and certainly the most _entertaining_ mission report I have ever received from any team of which you have ever been a part.” Mace says. “So this is official notice – Padawan Jeisel is receiving a commendation on behalf of the Council. _You_ are receiving a reprimand, and strict instruction to enroll her in the advanced padawans course for professional communication. This will allow her to continue to write these reports with the appropriate authority to assign her own name to them. In the meantime, you are to review and verify that her reports are accurate and complete before signing them and allowing them to be submitted.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Qui-Gon mutters apprehensively.

“I think this is a terrific idea.” Mace says brightly, tucking the datapad away and crossing his arms. “And the perfect punishment for your negligence. You gave her a responsibility long before she was due for it, Qui-Gon. Congratulations, your padawan took it for everything it was worth.”

Sighing in defeat, Qui-Gon nods.

Mace softens, just a touch. “Cheer up, Qui-Gon. You’re doing just fine.” He smirks. “She’ll either be magnificent or terrifying.”

~*~

The large round door swicks open, and Sifo-Dyas strides into Oppo Rancisis’ Council offices, uncertain if his headache was caused by mental stress, physical fatigue, eye strain, or something in the Force. “Master Rancisis, I’ve just received- you are not Master Rancisis.” Sifo-Dyas stops himself, blinking in the cave-like office with its circular sky-light in the roof as its only light at the slight figure which resolves itself into Knight Adi Gallia.

She lifts a brow, and Sifo-Dyas half expects to hear ‘Shouldn’t you have seen that coming?’ fall out of her mouth. It’s something he heard rather often as a Padawan and as A Knight, but less often from his fellow Master’s and Councilors. He was a seer, yes, obviously, and a powerful one at that, but he didn’t see everything coming, all the time.

“No, I am not.” She says, her voice scratchy and low, even for her, who had naturally low tones.

“Knight Gallia, shouldn’t you be in the Halls of Healing?” Sifo-Dyas asks in concern, stepping forward. She’s only in two layers of her usual Jedi ensemble and moving very carefully. Half her hair pods are in bandages, her arm in a cast and he can tell she’s nursing broken ribs. Neither she nor her padawan had fared well for their last mission. Or the one before that. “What are you doing in here?”

Gallia glowers at him, and she feels brittle, in the Force, releasing jerky ebbs of _frustration-desperation-seething anger- sorrow_. “Going over mission casualty reports.” She states stonily.

Sifo-Dyas sighs piteously. “Knight Gallia,” He says gently. “ we can’t change the past. I don’t know what you hope to find, but it can wait. These things have already happened, and you need to focus on what is happening now. You are injured. You need to return to the Halls and rest, and heal.”

Gallia stares at him, the glower fading into something else, something shamed. “My padawan is down there. I don’t – I don’t know how to help her. She’s so strong, but she’s….I think she’s angry at me.” Knight Gallia swallows. “I nearly got her killed.”

Sifo-Dyas doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort her. He’s never taken a padawan. The curse of being a seer is he sees too much of too many futures. The idea of trying to shape a youngling into a Jedi knight, with all of the many possibilities flickering behind his eyes every time he looked at them – it would be too much, he fears. “You are both here.” He says. “You are both alive.”

Knight Gallia nods dully, her hand clenched around the datapads containing the missions where Jedi died after being assigned by her recommendation.

She takes a few fortifying breathes, and the tension seems to bleed away into the poised mask of the diplomat. “You were looking for Master Rancisis?” She inquires, and he can almost see an afterimage laid over her injured face, of herself when she is whole and undauntable. It makes him want to smile.

And then he remembers why he was looking for Master Rancisis.

“Ah… yes.” He says, tapping his finger on his own datapad. “I’ve just received a Cease and Desist order from the Treasury of the Galactic Republic.”

~*~

When most padawans and initiates were told Quinlan was being trained as an investigator, they had this impression that somehow the job was special and mysterious. Truth was, most of investigation relied on just finding people. And finding people was easy.

Even with Bant breathing over his shoulder and Aayla hanging off one hand.

“She’s over here.” Quinlan turns, keeping a watchful eye out that they weren’t spotted by Padawan Leeoli at the service desk as they snuck in to see Siri.

It’s not that they were banned from seeing Siri, but…well, it was more interesting this way. Also he was just sort of used to trying to sneak around Padawan Leeoli after his long stint in the Halls.

“How can you tell?” Bant asks, trying to whisper, which was not something Mon Calamari did well. She and her master were just back from Ossus, again, because Bant was starting a new lesson cycle, and she had to be in Temple for the laboratories she’d chosen. She said her master was itchy and restless, and would likely return to Ossus without her padawan for a time, too eager and competitive with her fellow archivists to miss out on the glorious trove that was the ancient temple.

As to her question…Quinlan can tell where Siri is because he can feel her anger in the Force. The lurking thing that lives in the Dark Side, and thus lives within him, feeds on it, and hones in on such negative emotions like a boonta hound with the scent of bantha in its nose.

Now, Siri is almost always angry on some level. She was sharp intellect and budding power wrapped up in a small, fragile human body, and she wants nothing more than to prove herself. Anger is as necessary to her survival as breathing. But this was different, this was…oily and caustic and bitter. This was the dark side of anger.

And Quinlan doesn’t want to say that, explain that, so he shrugs, and Bant huffs.

His friends were…trying, to adjust, to what had happened to him. None of them were as at ease with it as Obi-Wan was, but they hadn’t just written him off as a lost cause and turned away from him either. Bant struggled with it the most, but she also tried the hardest, whereas the others seemed content to mostly just pretend everything was normal. Being an empath meant she could always feel the dark side thrumming in his skin, all negative emotion and discord, regardless of his shields.

She was trying, and he thinks that’s why she had gone and collected Aayla, and then come fetched him from Master Tholme with the excuse of visiting Siri – without the rest of their friends.

“Here.” Quinlan stops outside a door, and Aayla immediately drops his hands and takes a jumping step back down the corridor, assuming what she called her ‘scout’ position, peering around the Halls with her hands shadowing her eyes so she could ‘warn’ him if they were about to be caught.

As if they weren’t the most obvious spot of trouble in the Halls.

Quinlan thought it was adorable, and gave her a thumbs up, which earned him a gap-toothed grin.

He presses the chime, Bant side-stepping as close to him as she dared. Quinlan glances at her and she glances back out of the corner of her very large silver eyes. He smiles and she smiles nervously back, nodding. They’re doing alright.

He presses the chime again.

“Go away!”

“She’s awake.” Quinlan reports to Aayla, palms the unlocked door open, and saunters inside.

“Wai’ for me!” Aayla shrieks.

“I said go-“ Siri snaps, stopping when she registers Bant and Quinlan standing there, and then the little twi’lek slamming into the back of Quinlan’s legs and then jumping up to get a grip on his shoulders, trying to pull herself up onto his back. Quinlan reaches up, grabs her arms, and yanks her up so she can cling to him like a kraken, her legs hooking around his waist.

The distraction is….helpful.

Siri looks awful. She’s lost weight she didn’t really have to begin with, her hair has been shorn to a fine buzz – including her padawan braid – her skin is sallow from malnutrition and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying.

“Oh, Siri.” Bant says.

“ _Don’t_!” Siri snaps, choking. “I’m _fine_.”

It’s a pitiful claim, because they can all tell she very clearly isn’t. In the room with her, Bant can no doubt feel that anger, and Aayla – Aayla just looks solemnly back at Siri, her eyes a little sad, perhaps, but this isn’t shocking to her, as a former slave.

“Siri, what happened?” Bant asks, moving next to the bed and sitting down.

“I got separated from my master.” Siri says sharply. “And put in a labor camp. I’m fine.” She repeats.

Quinlan knows a bit more than that – he may or may not have laid his hands on her shoes – and he knows her master was in the Halls for injuries related to an explosion/ building collapse. He knows Siri was outside at the time, and didn’t know whether or not her master survived the explosion. He knows she spent a week trying to hide from the patrols, watching them round up civilians and take them away, scrounging food from abandoned houses, trying to look out for a few other kids in the same situation. He knows she fought like hell when they were found, but gave up her lightsaber when the other kids were threatened. He knows she felt alone, scared, worthless-

He knows too much.

“You’re not fine.” Bant says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Bant repeats firmly, and Quinlan pats Aayla on the head when the little twi’lek growls a bit. Bant is an empath. She’s taken classes to hone those abilities, and to use them to best affect. He trusts she knows what she’s doing.

“Yes I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Bant says patiently.

“Shut up!”

“Siri, you’re not fine.”

“I’m not fine!” Siri shouts, tears welling up in her eyes. “There, I said it! I’m not fine!” She draws her knees up, looking very small in the middle of the bio-bed, and wraps her arms around them.

“You’re angry.” Bant says calmly.

“Of kriffing course I’m angry.” Siri growls, the tears starting to run down her face. “What good is saying it going to do?”

“You have to deal with it, Siri.” Bant says. “Not hide.”

“I’m not hiding.” Siri grumbles, bitter.

“You refused to see anyone for the last four days, Siri.” Bant points out, still very calm, patient, soothing.

“So I’m hiding. _Fine_.” The younger girl concedes mulishly.

“You have to deal with this.”

“Or what?” The blonde snaps, crystal blue eyes flashing.

“You could join me in the Dark Side.” Quinlan quips, making both of them startle and turn to blink at him. He shrugs lazily. “I’m just saying.”

“Quinlan!” Bant gasps, appalled. “That is so not-“

Siri laughs.

It starts out as a choked little huff, and then a giggle, and then a full snorting laugh that slowly tapers away, leaving her gasping raspily and flushed in the face.

She scrubs at her tears and takes a minute to compose herself, sitting up and smoothing down her pale patient gown. She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and turns primly on him.

“Only in your crazy addled dreams, Quinlan Vos.”

Quinlan grins wolfishly, and lopes towards the bed. “ _Bet_ I could convince you.” He drawls.

“Not in the least.” She huffs, sniffling a little.

“Think about it.” He teases, drawing himself – and Aayla with him – up onto the edge of the bed. “What’s not to like?” Quinlan suggests, lifting his brows. “ _Me_ , and _you_ , _together_ …“

“That.” Siri cuts in, a playful, challenging glint in her gaze. Siri never could resist a challenge.

“But _Siri_ …” Quinlan says breathlessly, clasping his hands to his heart and leaning towards her.

She shoves him off the bed.

Aayla squeaks, Bant rolls her eyes, and the Force shines with light.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tax fraud?” Master Poof repeats, neck wavering. “We’re being auditied because we’re being accused of tax fraud violations?”

“It’s more than that, Councilors.” Knight Gallia presses, having been lent Master Koon’s seat in deference to her injuries (which would be further mended if she actually heeded her healers and focused on resting). “The Cease and Desist order demands we stop, immediately, our new advanced initiate policy, until they can conduct a thorough review.”

“But that’s – why? How are these remotely connected?”

“In light of our service to the Galactic Republic, the Jedi Order receives a tax credit for every initiate and padawan we raise. Furthermore, we receive reimbursement for expenses in addition to a stipend for any missions we perform in service to the Republic at the request of the Senate. That stipend is calculated on the number and rank of the Jedi assigned that mission.” Adi explains. “We have been accused of violating our tax-stipend agreement and of inflating our tax credit allotments in light of our new policy for reclaiming older initiates.”

“This sounds like a technical error.” Master Koon comments, standing just off to her side.

“On the surface.” Adi nods, expression grim. “The tax credits are intended to be in reference to younglings, but the terminology involved allows for looser interpretation.”

“What I don’t understand is the response.” Master Windu comments, pressed back in his seat. “We’ve only inducted twenty-eight older initiates back into this Temple. Twenty-six, as two have decided that this is not be their path.”

Here, Knight Gallia smiles grimly. “We have.” She nods. “And that drew next to no notice at all. However, the Corellian Temple _did_ notice, and took our trial run as….tacit permission. They’ve reclaimed nearly five hundred initiates from the Explorer Corps, and from what I understand roughly half of those older students have already been apprenticed.”

Collectively, the entire council holds back a sigh at the Corellian tendency to do nothing by halves.

“The Treasury has taken their sudden population boom as some sort of… profit engineering maneuver on the part of the Order.” Sifo-Dyas concludes, for the benefit of his counterparts.

“Troubling, that is.” Master Yoda comments, having been unusually quiet throughout the discussion.

“No.” Knight Gallia replies stonily, drawing surprised looks from several councilors. “What troubles me, masters, is that they expect us to obey.”

“I beg your pardon, Knight Gallia?” Master Mundi inquires, steeping his fingers.

“They expect us to respond by stopping this program in its infancy.” Adi says sharply. “As if tax benefits give them prerogative within the internal operations of this Order. For the Senate to have some oversight and influence in regards to our operations is a given, masters, but this…this is something else.”

“I have read Knight Gallia into the Kenobi Report.” Master Rancisis informs his colleagues, when they seem concerned as to her zeal in the matter.

“And I suggest you read the entire Order into that report, Masters.” Knight Gallia adds. “This is either the most crucial time in our history, or it is the end of the time of the Jedi. This program is vital for the sustainment of this order – and this;” She holds up her datapad, containing the Cease and Desist. “This is direct interference by a function of the Galactic Senate in matters of policy which govern our survival.”

“An accusation, is that, Knight Gallia?” Master Yaddle asks gravely.

Knight Gallia looks to Master Rancisis, who nods faintly, threading his fingers through his silver beard and tightening his coils.

“Master of the Jedi Council, I and Master Rancisis have been concerned for some time about matters within the Senate as regards to this Order.” Adi lifts her chin, her presence in the Force a blazing corona. “And yes, that is an accusation.”

~*~

“Senator Organa.” Bail turns at the warm greeting and finds his favorite Jedi slipping past the newly elected Senator for Rhodia to greet him. The election after-party was a crush of people, either celebrating or sulking, and Bail could already hear new alliances shifting and new enmities beginning in amidst the throng of new representatives. Himself included.

Master Naasade dips his head, palms open up, and Bail returns the gesture. “My congratulations on your appointment, Senator.” Ben smiles, and a light enters his eyes.

“Thank you.” Bail smiles back. “It is an honor to serve.”

The other mans lips quirk at that, but he nods graciously enough. “I particularly enjoyed your speech. You certainly stood out among you fellows. Well done.”

“I don’t think it was all that impressive.” Bail says modestly. “I think I just held my nerves a little better.”

“Ah, yes. That poor lad from Pantora seemed a little overwhelmed to present himself before the Dome.” The Jedi mentions softly, mindful not to start any torrid rumors about the other junior senator.

“Pantora is not entirely fond of its ties to the Senate.” Bail murmurs. “Their Senators are rather a reflection of that. They sit to serve their Chairman, not because they particularly wished to have the seat.”

Ben twitches a brow in acknowledgement of that. “Politics.” The Jedi muses, giving a faux shudder. Bail quirks a smile.

“I _am_ a politician, you know.”

“The very best of them.” Ben assures him, clasping his arm briefly. “Else I cannot imagine we’d ever be friends.”

Bail huffs a laugh, and his Jedi friend grins cheekily.

“Thank you for that.” Bail says honestly, mood much more relaxed than it had been two minutes ago.

~*~

Obi-Wan excuses himself when Senator Bel Iblis and the new Corellian junior senator get drawn into a debate with the Senators from Chnadrilla over….something to do with industrial emission values. Senator Bel Iblis pats his shoulder as he departs, and the new Corralian junior senator eyes him enviously as he pulls away, leaving the debate behind.

Obi-Wan can feel his master’s good mood across the plaza, a seeping warmth through the chaotic noise and confusing static of the Senate Building, and smiles for it. Obi-Wan was not oblivious to his master’s depressed outlook since his injury, but he’s improved much in the last few weeks as he regained his health and was – as per Quinlan’s instructions, heartily backed by Healer Kala – no longer allowed to spend a significant portion of his time brooding. His therapy days were still somewhat rough on his equilibrium, but for the most part he was improving drastically. The master and padawan pair had thrown themselves back into training, though Obi-Wan’s new class cycle was starting soon and would cut in on his time. They also spent an increased amount of time in the crèche, not just with Beru and Mog, but in assisting crèchemasters in the younglings first lessons on the Force, which Obi-Wan tolerated with more or less good humor and his master genuinely seemed to enjoy. They had even run another training mission to Ilum, which went as well as it always did.

Obi-Wan was bummed that Master Ti and the Skywalkers were still away on Shili, but the holocalls were a good highlight to his and his master’s evening, and Obi-Wan thought having something positive to think about at the end of the day was worth the impatience for their return. His master was certainly sleeping better, at least.

“Oh, excuse me, Padawan Kenobi?” Obi-Wan lurches as he obliviously misses a Senator approaching him with a greeting. He feels a flush creep up his neck at his carelessness and looks up at the Senator smiling welcomingly at him, into kindly blue eyes.

Obi-Wan’s mind blanks, and he blink a few times. The flush creeps a little higher in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry Senator, I can’t remember when we met.”

“Oh, not to worry, dear boy!” The Senator chuckles easily. “It was nothing of note. Senator Palpatine, of Naboo.” He bows cordially, and Obi-Wan returns the gesture.

“The junior legislators!” Obi-Wan blurts out. “Sorry, I mean, on the Moia petition. I made friends with the Junior Legislators from Naboo.” His head feels…light and fuzzy, like he can’t quite make sense of himself. Embarrassed, Obi-Wan breaks eye contact, though the Senator only feels amused at his predicament, and not annoyed by his poor manners.

“Yes, yes, you made quite the heroic impression, young Jedi.” Palpatine smiles. “Though I understand you were injured during an assassination attempt against the representative of Mandalore? What a despicable act, harming children.” He remarks.

“Yes sir.” Obi-Wan replies, the scar on his face seeming to burn when the Senator glanced at it, feeling genuinely angry on Obi-Wan’s behalf.

“Well, Padawan Kenobi, let me just thank you for your bravery in the face of such villany.” Palpatine murmurs. “You are surely a credit to the Jedi.”

“Thank you, Senator.” Obi-Wan swallows. “I’m only glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

“Yes, it would have been such a tragedy.” The Senator remarks, seeming lost in thought, and then shakes himself. “Well, let’s not dwell on such dour topics. I don’t mean to keep you, I merely wished to say hello again, Padawan Kenobi. I dare say we’ll be watching your career with interest, if you keep pulling dashing heroics such as that.” He cheers, and Obi-Wan blushes again at the praise.

“May the Force be with you, Senator.” Obi-Wan defers, and they part ways. He presses a finger against the fading sting in the scar on his face, shakes his head in the hopes of clearing his muddled thoughts, and seeks out his master.

~*~

“Bail Prestor Organa.” Breha remarks exasperatedly, crossing her arms in hologram.

“Dearest?” Bail turns, having just seen Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi out of his offices, where they had retreated as the political sniping had grown too much and the celebration after their elections had begun to break apart.

She lifts an unamused brow at him before giving in to a fond, but still exasperated smile. “You should have told me.”

Bail looks to the love of his life with utter confusion. “Told you…?”

“Bail.” She sighs, smoothing down the flimsy spilled across her desk, a speech she had been working on while Bail was holding conversations with his friends and political allies and a few political rivals. “About Ben and his padawan?” She prompts.

Bail is no more enlightened.

“Bail Organa, that boy is practically the carbon copy of his master.” She says flatly. “Or should I say his _father_?”

Bail blinks, shocked. “Breha, Jedi are forbidden from having children. It…happens, of course, they’re hardly _celibate_ , but…” Bail shakes his head in denial. “And truly, they aren’t that much alike.”

“Bail.” Breha says flatly.

“Breha.” Bail returns. “They were just standing right in front of me. I’ve never noticed anything particularly-“

“Look.” Breha orders, and an image appears below her holoprojection, a snapshot of Ben and Obi-Wan, standing in his office just minutes ago. Bail studies their faces, frowning in uncertainty.

“That’s…” He trails off, troubled.

“If Jedi aren’t meant to have children, they likely are equally forbidden from taking those children on as their own students. Perhaps you’ve never noticed, dearest, because he really rather _does not want_ _it to be noticed_. Though how he gets away with it…” Breha shakes her head.

“Jedi mind tricks don’t work like that, dear.” Bail says, rubbing at one temple. Not to mention the fact that all members of Alderaani royalty underwent training to harden their minds against such manipulations.

“I don’t think it’s anything so direct as a mind trick.” Breha muses. “What was it you said about our Jedi Master? He doesn’t lie, he…creatively implies. He’s certainly full of surprises.”

“Please sound less like you’re enjoying the intrigue and espionage, love.” Bail pleads.

“But I am enjoying the intrigue and espionage, _love_. And so are you.” Breha smiles sweetly. “Your friends are so much more complicated than mine.”

“I like simplicity.” Bail says dryly, though he fails to mask the sly look of mischief in his eyes.

“Says the secret lover of the Queen of Alderaan.” Breha lifts a regal brow, lacing her hands together beneath her chin. “I don’t believe you.”

Bail glances back down at the image she had captured; Ben in the midst of a debate with Bail, full of spark and cunning, and his Padawan standing next to him, giving him a doubtful side-eye, like his master was full of _skat_. He didn’t begrudge the man the fact that he may be breaking the rules, or the fact that he was using questionable methods to keep that rule-breaking secret, given the circumstances. Bail was hardly in a position to protest, considering his and Breha’s still as yet illicit relationship.

Bail’s gaze catches on the scar on Obi-Wan’s face, as it does not when the boy is in the room with him, and he swallows tightly, a cold clenching in his chest.

They still couldn’t identify who had been in that image they’d recovered, handing the padawan back his lightsaber, and Bail wasn’t foolish enough to simply ask the boy outright. It would seem too suspicious a question. But Bail couldn’t quite get the stricken look on his friends face out of his mind, and it plagued him, the idea that there was something – _someone_ – in the Senate, working against the Jedi, who inspired such an unusual display of fear. Someone who had no qualms about murdering a boy just barely into his teens. Bail was not a naïve man. Politics was brutal, fraught with corruption and abuse, often violent, but to this day he never failed to feel with utter wretchedness of it. He had served under the Senate Office of Alderaan since he was fifteen, and never grew numb, as so many seemed to. This, this evil…

 _Whoever you are, whatever your purpose is_ …Bail thinks, holding on to a low, burning anger that has fueled him for most of his life. _You are my enemy, and I will do everything I can to undo you, and all you hope to achieve._

Alderaan was a peaceful, beautiful world, considered by many to be the perfect paradise of the Republic. An ideal all could strive for.

But Alderaan was not, though many derided it as so, weak.

There is no peace without justice.

There is no justice without sacrifice.

There is no sacrifice without honor.

This is what Alderaan asks of you.

This is what Alderaan promises.

Honor. Selflessness. Justice.

Bail had sworn himself to that code a young man, as had every Alderaani son and daughter before him, and every son and daughter of Alderaan after him. It was the foundation upon which their people had built themselves and their world, and it was the unbreakable core of them, when all around them might seem to be chaos and hopelessness. 

Just that morning he had been taken aside by the Senior Senator of Alderaan, and had that code recited to him.

“You’re a good man, Bail Organa.” He’d said, squeezing Bail’s shoulder. “And that makes you dangerous.” It had been a warning.

“ _Bail_.” Breha called for his attention. “I can see you plotting.”

“I do not _plot_.” Bail protests, pulled out of his thoughts.

Breha gives him an indulgent look. “Take care not to seem too serious, dear.” She reminds him. “You’ll give the game away.”

Bail sighs, and takes in the sight of her, letting his fondness and affection for her relax his being. “It’s a dangerous game.” He murmurs.

“It is.” She replies, gaze catching and holding his, as resolute and unyielding as the peaks of Alderaan. “But there is no one better to play it.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Tuck your elbow in closer.” Obi-Wan corrects, adjusting Sian’s form as she moved through the kata in lock-step, one fixed motion at a time. “It’s a turn of the wrist, not a swing of the arm.”

Sian sighs, and Obi-Wan grabs her wrist, adjusting her grip. Again.

“It just…feels uncomfortable.” Sian complains.

“Then use a different grip.” Obi-Wan suggests, stepping back so she can perform the motion again.

“I tried that.” Sian mutters, iridescent eyes flashing in his direction. “Master Qui-Gon disapproved.”

“Why?”

“Because I tried a reverse grip.” Sian explains, carefully working her way through the motions, her pink saber humming. “And he says a reverse grip is dangerous.”

“Wielding a lightsaber is dangerous.” Obi-Wan huffs. “My master has me practice with a reverse grip all the time.” He frowns. “I don’t really like it, but if it’s more comfortable for you…” Obi-Wan shrugs. “We could always have my master talk to him. Or Bant’s master. They’re friends.”

“I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Don’t think of it as disappointing him.” Obi-Wan says supportively. “Think of it as challenging him. Challenging your master is good for them. At least, that’s what Master Yoda says.”

“I think my existence challenges him.” Sian mutters with a pout, and then huffs in aggravation, dropping out of the kata. “It doesn’t help that I want to learn makashi, and he hates the form.”

Obi-Wan’s brows shoot up. “Reverse grip makashi?” He questions.

She turns a sheepish look on him, and a shrug, shaking her brown and white fringe from her eyes. “No one’s ever done it?” She remarks, with all the foolish hope of someone waiting to be the first. “Or at least, no one has ever done it well.”

“No kidding.” Obi-Wan replies, crossing his arms and eyeing her thoughtfully. “Your grandmaster could help you, when he returns to the Temple. Or Master Yoda, considering he taught Master Dooku.”

“It’s about as impossible to get one on one training with Master Yoda as it is to get my master to remember lunch is something that should be eaten. No, wait, it _might_ be easier than that, but it’s still not likely. I’ve asked.” She says, changing her grip on her saber to a reverse grip. “But you’ve had a primer in makashi, so I had hoped….” She bats her eyes at him.

“I can give you the same primer I got.” Obi-Wan says, crossing his arms. “But adding a reverse grip to it would require modifying the form, and that’s above my level. My master might be able to-“

Obi-Wan’s comm-link goes off and he fishes it out of his pocket. It continues to beep shrilly in his hand, and Obi-Wan asks a quiet apology of Sian and walks away to answer it.

“Mand’alor.” He greets cautiously.

“Jed’ika.” Fett’s wearing his bucket, so his expression is unavailable, and his body language on the holo-projection gives nothing away. Obi-Wan can hear traffic in the background, but all he can see is Fett’s upper half. “I have a favor to ask.”

~*~

“She’s getting very good, your padawan.” Coorah Arkona comments thoughtfully, watching the sabers arc and clash with a flash of light. “Though still rather aggressive.”

“That may yet be to her advantage.” Shaak Ti remarks, watching her padawan with pride.

In the dry riverbed below them, Shmi whirled, her light-staff a shining beacon against the cracked brown clay beneath her feet, one end a burning white, and the other a bold desert yellow. Ahsaia danced around her, her blue blade flickering in quick, sharp clashes before darting away. She was fast, and favored Niman, which was a well-rounded form, if less powerful than others. No great strengths, but no great weaknesses either. Whereas Shmi…Shi Cho suited her instincts, her natural trust in the Force to guide her, but Djem So would serve her aggressive fighting style better, as well as her preference for a staff. If she could reign herself in. In this one area, in a fight, Shmi struggled for control, for restraint.

“It will certainly come as a surprise to anyone who finds themselves facing her.” Coorah nods, studying the small, slight figure of the human woman below them. “It surprised me.”

“Ah…myself as well.” Shaak Ti comments dryly. “She nearly skewered the poor knight who agreed to assist me. I hadn’t thought her capable of such violence. More the fool was I.”

They fall quiet, watching Ahsaia try to drive herself past Shmi’s guard, but struggling to defend herself from the challenge of the lightstaff and it’s wide reach.

“She’ll never be one of the great warriors. My padawan.” Coorah remarks quietly.

“Does that disappoint you?” Shaak Ti asks softly, reaching over to lay a hand on the other womans arm.

“I think it used to.” Coorah says guiltily, ashamed of herself. “My foolish togruta pride rearing its head. But when she came back from her hunt….”

It had been a sight, for sure. The tall young Togruta had been successful, dragging a kiliope kill back into the village on a hand-made, makeshift sled, delivered just in time to be dressed as a wedding feast. She’d been muddy, bloodied from dressing her kill, and half covered in hives from unfortunate contact with some particularly offended plant. She’d staggered up to her master after five days in the wild.

“I did it, Master.” She’d gasped out. “Are you proud of me now?”

She’d stood tall, but trembling, and Coorah had been grinning as wide as her face would allow. “I’m proud of you, I’m always proud of you.”

Ahsaia had crumpled into tears. “It was so awful, Master! It was gross and awful and I don’t ever want to do anything like this again. I can’t believe I killed it.” She’d cried, and the villagers had discreetly removed the animal to be cleaned and prepared and then removed themselves to give hunt-daughter and hunt-mother privacy, and Shaak Ti had as well.

“I’ve never been more ashamed of myself, than to realize I had behaved in a manner which made her doubt her own natural skills and accomplishments. To make her believe I would care less for her if she did not succeed in the areas I favored as opposed to her own.”

“Then you are very wise, Coorah.” Shaak Ti says. “For some masters never see this of themselves. Padawans can be just as easily harmed by our pride as they can be by our disapproval or neglect.”

“I suppose so.” Coorah agrees. “I am just glad that she did seem happier with herself after a bath and a good meal.”

“She learned what she was capable of. She learned what she was not capable of.” Shaak Ti says. “And she learned what she _could_ do, and that gives her the clarity to decide what she _will not_ do. These are all strong lessons that will help her guide herself as an adult.”

Shaak Ti eyes her companion. “And as I recall, she is not the only young huntress to find herself in tears after.”

Coorha flushes, the lavender bands on her montrals deepening in color, no doubt as caught in the illusion that a Jedi should never be so vulnerable as most tended to be. “I was _exhausted_.”

Shaak Ti glances away, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “I cried too.”

Coorah’s surprise sparkles in the Force, her honey-colored eyes widening. Shaak Ti lifts an elegant brow. “Exhaustion and hunger wreak their havoc.” Shaak Ti says. “It is natural to cry of stress. And it is natural to cry for innocence lost, and for a life taken, no matter the reason, no matter the monster it may have been.”

“I’ve never seen you as anything less than….serene and strong. The legendary Jedi Master ShaakTi, Huntress of Shili, who slew an Akul in a solo hunt.” Coorah says, a sheepish sort of embarrassment coloring her tone.

“And your padawan had likely never seen you as anything other than a strong warrior and wise master as well.” Shaak Ti says. “It’s part of growing up to realize your heroes are fallible. To recognize that they are not more or less than you are, and that you are not more or less than they. It’s how we become heroes and idols in turn.”

Coorah looks down, demure in the face of that wisdom. “Thank you, Master.” She looks fondly down into the dry riverbed, at her padawan. “I suppose I never thought of it like that.”

“That’s because you know your faults and flaws best. You never forget them. But they do. They don’t see them. They see the best of us, and that strives us to become even better.”

Coorah nods, and then sighs devastatingly a moment later, turning a grumpy look on her former hunt-mother. “I’ll never be able to repeat that as prettily as you just put it. It’s not fair that you always know just the right things to say, to sound so inspiring… half the time I’m just trying not to sound like I’m making it up.”

Shaak Ti smirks, and shakes her head. “That, I have no wisdom for.” Eventually, Coorah would learn that _all_ masters felt that way, but Shaak Ti had to keep some mysteries in the eyes of those who looked up to her.

“Of course not.” Coorah huffs.

~*~

Ben smooths down the edges of his tabards, the look and feel of the concordian silk still unfamiliar, for all that the style is just the same. Well, nearly. His shirt is in the dark brown, his tunics the fabric that shimmered between soft orange and low red, with glints of copper to gold, and his tabards the ivory-cream, obscuring most of the flashier fabric, which suited his more modest tastes. Obi-Wan had no such qualms, and his shirt was black, tunics white, and tabards the shimmering iron-grey to high silver, which was just barely subtler than Ben’s fiery colors.

He has a feeling that they’ll be very grateful for the protection of the concordian silk soon enough.

To meet Fett, that had to descend to the lower levels, which Ben was far more comfortable with than his padawan was. Lawlessness and poverty were no strangers to him, but Obi-Wan had never seen it so close to home before.

“Why don’t they leave for something better?” Obi-Wan asks, subdued.

“Poverty tends to feed itself, Obi-Wan.” Ben says, trying to be kind. “Most of them are too poor to escape that which makes them poor.”

“Why don’t we help them?”

“We do.” Ben mutters. “But for every one we help there are ten more who need our help. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help, but….their situation is systematic. We can change the lives of individuals, but changing the systems that create their suffering…we’re trying, padawan. But it’s a big galaxy, and as you know…there often simply aren’t enough of us.”

Obi-Wan frowns, watching speeder lights and block signs and strangers blur by as Ben drives the speeder down.

“Well, isn’t this a charming hive of scum.” Ben remarks, parking the speeder, offering a sharp look to a bothan that looks too interested in it, and lays a hand on his padawans shoulder, guiding him into the rather disrepaired city square, which had been built around until it was utterly choked off.

“This is either an excellent or a terrible place for an ambush.” Ben remarks, stepping into the desolate space.

“That is precisely the appeal.” Fett grunts, melting out of the shadows.

Ben’s fist comes up, across his chest, and Obi-Wan’s does the same. Both the Jedi can feel the man in question grimace behind his bucket of a helmet. Ben and Obi-Wan share a glance.

“Any particular reason we’re meeting here?” Ben inquires, trying to discern the colors of Fett’s armor in the poor and mismatched lighting. “We could easily have rendezvoused outside the Temple Square.”

“I may like you, _jetiise_ , but that doesn’t mean I want to be associated with you.” Fett says sharply.

“Flattering.” Ben smiles sharply, crossing his arms. “How can we be of service?”

“I’m working a difficult job and I need backup of a certain…caliber.” Fett says, still standing half-blended into a deeper shadow.

“You want to take my padawan and I along….on a bounty.” Ben says slowly, incredulous.

Fett shifts his balance. “It’s not exactly a bounty.”

“What exactly is it?” Obi-Wan asks, frowning at the mandalorian with an assessing look in his eyes. Jango Fett and Ben may have an understanding of sorts between them, but Obi-Wan knew him better.

“A rescue mission.” Fett says shortly, and both Ben and Obi-Wan can feel…

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow, and he continues to stare at the Mand’alor.

“A reluctant rescue mission.” Fett concedes.

“Reluctant rescue mis – a _kidnapping_?” Obi-Wan works out, voice rising, peeved.

Ben frowns, eyeing Fett, because that wasn’t Fett’s kind of job.

“Who?” Ben asks quietly. Fett turns his head slightly, and Ben gets a sheen off the t-visor. The Mand’alor looks down at Obi-Wan to answer.

“We’re kidnapping Bo-Katan.” He says shortly. “From the Death Watch.”


	5. Chapter 5

Adi stares across the Halls at the door to her padawan’s Healing room, guilt and doubt weighing in her stomach. Her bones ache, and she knows she has overexerted herself again, pushed her injured body too far and set herself back, but the work feels like it cannot wait.

Now that Adi knows that there is a shadow of malice in the Senate, it feels like a vice closing around her throat, an unexpected enemy creeping in on all sides. It isn’t just whatever it is in the Senate Building itself that seems to cloud the Jedi, drain them, even. It isn’t just this strange and almost overreaction by the Treasury attempting to put a halt to their new influx of initiates and padawans.

Whatever it is….Adi has been digging into the records. Whatever it is, she fears it is very, very old, and it has been pruning and whittling away at the Jedi Order for a very long time.

And she has been a pawn in that.

Her first mission with Siri went badly. The situation escalated too quickly, and they were caught in the crossfire. Her last mission with Siri was a disaster. They had gone to mediate to a labor dispute and discovered that the situation was not as they had been briefed. They found themselves in the middle of civil uprising against an unyielding militarized government. Adi was lucky she hadn’t died of her wounds. She was lucky her padawan hadn’t been shot in the street, as many others had been, or executed in that labor camp.

Adi had gone over the records. It wasn’t just ill luck. There had been a gradual increase in mission failures over the last few decades. Nothing alarming, taken year by year. Statistically a slow decay into a darker and darker galaxy.

Except it wasn’t gradual at all. The statistical algorithms were skewed by outliers. Absolutely ordinary years hiding the years where they lost two, three, six Jedi in a slew of bad luck, unsolved disappearances, and failed missions. And every time, just when there was enough carnage to warrant looking deeper…it tapered off. Things went back to normal.

And if Adi pulled enough records, went farther and farther back….they had lost more Jedi on routine assignments in the last century than they had in the three hundred years before that. To say nothing of the Jedi they lost on wider scale conflicts, where they responded in force.

Missions just seemed to get worse, escalate faster than expected. Numbers would be underestimated, resources overestimated, and all of it came down to the fact that she made recommendations for assignments that got Jedi killed. Adi had assigned herself and Siri to this last mission based on the same sort of reports and requests for which she would have assigned any other knight and padawan pair. By all accounts, it should have been a moderately simple mission, a good learning experience for a young diplomat.

Had Adi had even half an idea of what the situation had really been, she’d have sent a pair of partnered masters. At the very least.

It was the duty and responsibility of several Senate Boards and Committees to process requests, gather intel, and present packages to the Jedi – to Adi – for their assistance. Adi has gone over the records. There is no one origin for the failed missions, no one flaw or corrupt center for her to follow to the rotten source. She cannot find where the manipulation is occurring for all that she knows, in herself and in the Force, that something is dreadfully wrong.

She can no longer trust those packages.

And that puts her in a very precarious position.

Siri’s door opens, ejecting Quinlan Vos, and Adi catches a glimpse of a flush and a smile on her padawans face before it closes again. Vos slouches, and catches her eye as if drawn to her gaze. He lifts a challenging brow, and Adi clenches her jaw. She nods to him in gratitude, because it may make her skin crawl to even sense his tainted presence, but he is Siri’s friend, and he is somehow able to get through to her where the healers are failing to. His brow drops and he shuffles, dropping her gaze and looking faintly embarrassed. He nods lightly back in her direction and slips away, Adi frowning after him.

“Knight Gallia?”

Ah, yes. The man Adi had been waiting for. She’d been forced to call for him by comm, not up to another trek across the temple in her state, and she had been displeased to discover he was about to depart the Temple in response to a ‘personal call for aid’. Jedi were allowed to offer their services as they saw fit, of course, but, reluctantly, Adi would admit she would prefer Master Naasade and his padawan in temple while they navigated this new development between then Jedi and the Senate.

Adi looks to him, noting with some puzzlement his new tunics, of finer quality than most, and that shimmering fabric…She almost mistakes it for silk, which was an extravagant ply to vanity for a Jedi, but the sheen on it makes her believe its more than that. She spends enough time around royalty, controversial politicians, and high public figures to recognize the cunning difference between decoration and defense. She lifts a prudent brow, and he absently smooths down the edge of his tabards, also looking faintly embarrassed by her regard.

“With me, if you will.” Adi requests, stepping away from the service desk with a faint wince.

“Only if we’re going somewhere you can sit down.” He murmurs quietly, falling into step with her with an air of concern.

“I’m fine.” Adi grits out.

“I’ve seen too many soldiers spitting that lie through their teeth to believe you, Knight Gallia. “ Naasade chastises her. “I’ve done it myself, so I know better than most that your pride will do you no service. You are not fine, and you will better serve your cause by allowing yourself to heal.”

He speaks like he’s fought a war, a _long_ war, and Adi wishes, sometimes, that she had access to his records too. But no one does. She’s not even sure they exist. It wasn’t uncommon for some Shadows to have everything purged from the archives, erasing all trace of their existence.

“We’re going somewhere where I can sit down.” She retorts. She didn’t really have much choice – the only place she could go was back to her healing room.

When she’s settled, and he had the grace to politely ignore her when her face pales out as she moves to sit down, Adi takes a deep breath and levels him with a flat look.

“What do you know that we don’t?” She demands.

“Beg pardon?” He replies, and the only reason Adi doesn’t seethe at that is because he looks genuinely confused. She takes that to mean not that he doesn’t know something she doesn’t know, but that he perhaps knows too many things. She needs to be more specific.

“You warned me that there was something wrong with the Senate.” Adi says. “Your padawan published the report on the decline of the Jedi Order. The woman you rescued and brought into this Temple sits at the head of our new advanced initiates program. The challenge you so readily prompted Master Tahl and myself into issuing neatly brought about a resurgence in battle prowess throughout this Temple. For nearly two years you have been pushing an agenda the rest of us can’t quite grasp, seeding the solutions for problems we aren’t aware of. So tell me, what do you know that we do not?”

He takes in a breath, studying her sharply, intensely, for nearly a minute.

Then a smile creeps across his face, half of it a smirk and half of it rueful. “If anyone were to figure it out, it would be you, Knight Gallia.” The smile fades a little, and he strokes his beard. “What do you think I could know?” He asks.

Adi’s nostrils flare, and he issues her such a flat, quelling look she actually pauses before snapping at him.

“I am not mocking you.” He says. “I am issuing you a challenge, Knight Gallia, because I cannot simply tell you. I don’t think you trust me enough to actually believe me. More to the point you will not want to believe me. So. Look at all the pieces before you. What do they all add up to?”

Adi glowers at him, and he waits her out, settling into a stance more military than meditative, feet planted, hands clasped at the low of his back behind him, posture perfect and bearing strong. He looks like a Jedi knight of old legend, standing like that, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“This is about more than survival.” Adi states. “More than the decline of the Jedi.” Though there was no small dread in what those numbers revealed, a creeping end to their order.

“Knight Gallia.” He sighs, looking faintly disappointed in a way that made her feel like a foolish padawan. “It is _precisely_ about survival.”

“The initiates program, the report, certainly, but the issues in the senate, the saber training?” Adi frowns at him, and he stares resolutely back, with all the cold discipline and command of a –

 _Survival_.

Adi closes her eyes. The records. She had been in the records herself. It was so… perfectly sly. The last hundred years, and the hundred years before that, and ten hundred years more, perhaps, had been a slow war of attrition against the Jedi, carefully weaning them to the brink of their own extinction.

But a war of attrition was not what the man before her was prepared for. Was trying to prepare them for.

Population. Training. Politics.

There was war of attrition… and then there was just… _war_.

“What do you _know_?” Adi demands.

He clenches his jaw, eyes tightening as if in a wince, but the look in them is something near to relief. “The future is always in motion.” He tells her, sounding more like a dire warning than a platitude. “But it’s best to be prepared for the worst.”

“That isn’t an answer.” Adi accuses angrily.

“If you search yourself, Knight Gallia, I imagine you’ll discover you already know what you expect me to tell you, but if _I_ tell you, you can deny it.” He says implacably. “Excuse me, but I do need to leave.”

“Why does no one know, if you are so certain?” Adi demands, as he stops at the door. He catches her gaze.

“Because like you, Adi, most of the Jedi aren’t ready to know. And it’s for the best.” He says. “What you don’t know, the enemy can’t know you know.”

 _You’re not wrong_ , Adi thinks viciously, as he leaves. _But I still really kriffing dislike you_.

It’s only later, thinking back, that she’ll notice he called her by her given name, and that he said it wish such soft sorrow.

~*~

The door swicks open before Quinlan can press the chime.

“Hello there.” Obi-Wan says, faintly startled to find himself nearly nose to nose with his friend. Quinlan smirks and slouches against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

“Hello to you too.” He grins, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

“I don’t have much time Quinlan, my master and I are headed out.” Obi-Wan says, casually looking his up and down as if to make sure he was okay. “Another trip with the Mand’alor.”

“ _With_ your master?” Quinlan lifts his brows.

“ _With_ my master.” Obi-Wan drawls. “It’ll be….interesting.”

Quinlan pouts a little, trying to mask the cringing need that wells up, possessive and envious at the thought of Obi-Wan leaving again.

“I…I wanted to talk to you.” Quinlan looks aside, idly scuffing the edge of the threshold with one foot. He shouldn’t be this nervous, but he can’t help but feel embarrassed that he is pretty much emotionally dependent on a boy two and half years younger than him. “About that offer you made me. I’ve been thinking about it.”

When Obi-Wan had first proposed the idea, Quinlan had rejected it out of fear. Fear for himself, in a selfish, bitter sense. And fear for his friend, who offered so much without so much as flinching from the monsters he might meet in making himself so vulnerable.

Obi-Wan’s face pinches. “Now?” He asks. “Quinlan, I’m about to leave. Now is not a good time.”

“I know. No, I know, just….maybe after you get back. I think it would be… good. For me.” Quinlan mutters sullenly. He just… feels more balanced, around Obi-Wan. More steady.

And Obi-Wan smiles.

“Yes, Quinlan.” He says, bright in the Force. “We can make a bond when I get back.”

“Great.” Quinlan shoves himself out of his slouch and runs one hand up into his short dreadlocks, bouncing them lazily before letting his hand drop. It’s a nervous gesture he thought he’d grown out of, but old habits come back sometimes.

“Good.” Obi-Wan counters. “It’ll be good.”

“This is a master approved plan, though, right?” Quinlan asks, remembering the last time he let Obi-Wan do something selfless and apparently idiotic.

“My master thinks it’ll be fine.” Obi-Wan shrugs.

Quinlan narrows his eyes. “You’re so reassuring.” He mutters.

“Don’t you trust me?” Obi-Wan blinks widely, pouting.

Quinlan snorts. “Too much, I think.”


	6. Chapter 6

Fett’s armor, when Ben finally got a decent look at it in good light, was….interesting, to say the least. His body-suit was a deep, muted blue – the color of reliability, his base armor a polished grey for discipline, the paldrons on his shoulders a dark shade of mourning purple, and over his helmet, incorporated with the visor, was the True Mandalorian sigil done in black and lined in gold. Black for justice, and gold – on Mandalore, gold held one meaning, and only one – gold for vengeance.

The colors alone were practically a battle cry, and certainly a declaration. When it came to it, Death Watch would know exactly who was coming for them. And why.

Though it may not be the most suitable for this particular mission. An extraction generally required a tad more subtlety.

“How did you manage to track her through the Death Watch?” Ben inquires, intruding upon Fett in the cockpit, where he’d disappeared to almost immediately upon take-off. Ben and Obi-Wan had taken the opportunity to explore their odd transport vessel and then rest – it had been nightfall on Coruscant, after all, and sleep was as good a method as any to pass time in hyperspace.

Currently, Obi-Wan was in the back attempting to make friends with a green and grey C1 series astromech called ‘Fish’, who had a red-skinned lethan twi’lek dancing girl painted on his side and a mythosaur skeleton wrapping his dome.

“I haven’t.” Fett replies tersely, his bucket currently occupying the co-pilot’s seat as he toyed with the nav computer, the blue-hued light from hyperspace lining his face and shining in his dark hair. With that half-grimace tightening the edges of his eyes, he reminded Ben terribly of Cody.

“Sorry, what?” Ben questions. “What do you mean you haven’t? How do you expect to extract her if you don’t know where she is?”

“I know how to find out where she is.” Fett says, finally deigning to turn and look up at him. “It’s just been a little tricky. I had to take care of some sloppy tails that where impeding my investigation.”

“Well, I hope they survived the encounter.” Ben mutters, stepping forward to take the co-pilot seat, lifting the helmet for Fett to take.

“They did.” Fett grumbles peevishly. “They were working for Kryze.”

“Still avoiding him, then?”

“No anymore.” Fett grunts, and Ben eyes him critically, taking in his mulish look and slightly uncomfortable posture.

“Ah.” Ben remarks softly. “So you have finally spoken to him. Good. I presume he knows absolutely nothing about this plan of yours?”

“Fuck no.” Jango shoots him a snide look. “I like my jaw in one piece and the man had _already_ shot me.”

“I had noticed a limp.” Ben remarks, pressing down a smirk. Mandalorians would be Mandalorians. Fett glowers at him and Ben changes the subject. “So. How are we to find out where our dear lost girl is?”

Fett eyes him dubiously but answers regardless. “There’s a space port in the Ruudovar System where Death Watch maintains a presence. They appear to base much of their trade and extracurricular employment from there.”

Ben nods in comprehension, but frowns, stroking his beard. “That’s not the sort of assignment they give to people who will have the information we want.” He says cautiously.

“No. But they’ll know where we _can_ find the people who have the information I want.” Fett replies.

Ben nods, conceding to the point. “So are we doing this my way or the Mandalorian way?” Ben inquires. Fett scowls at him, his mouth a harsh slash.

“Quietly.” He mutters. “We don’t want to alert Death Watch to our intentions just yet.”

Ben smiles, leaning back in the co-pilots seat and pushing a lock of hair back from his face. “My way, then.”

~*~

Yoda closes his eyes, listing into the currents of the Force. The Temple roiled and trembled, and yet, in those currents of shock and dread was also a fervor, a whisper at first, but creeping through the undertow, growing stronger and surer – acceptance, determination, and a fierce _pride-loyalty-service_ that came when one faced their fears, faced the darkness, and knew that they could be beaten, and vowed that they would be. The Jedi were taking a blow, but they would endure.

Yoda is proud of them, in a way that unfurls wings in his chest and spreads and spreads until the feathers scrape the sky and slip free, encompassing and ever-expanding.

On Knight Gallia’s recommendation and with the High Council in agreement, they have published the Kenobi Report on the decline of the Jedi Order, and on the insight of Master Rancsis, they have done so in a manner both blatant and necessary. Officially releasing the documents, Master Rancisis had argued, would not be enough for a matter such as this.

And so they had then sent that report to every knight and master in the Order, not only for the Coruscant Temple, but for every Jedi in the galaxy.

 _They must know what is upon them_. Oppo had declared. _They must know, and they will face it bravely for knowing_.

Wrong, Yoda thought, Master Rancisis was not.

There was fear, yes he could feel it, but there was hope also. Their twenty-six advanced initiates were looked upon in new light, and there were many Masters and Knights throughout the temple meditating deeply on new considerations, in light of what they have been shown.

Yoda himself had been among them, deep in consideration indeed.

He shuffles his way to the gardens, quiet today with the younglings recalled to the crèche and the initiates dorms, where their crèche and clan masters spoke to them in gentler terms of what faced the Order, and what changes might come.

For all their new popularity, there was still an air of nervousness and faint uncertainty around the advanced initiates. A different sort of uncertainty from a youngling, deeper and more complicated, full of heavier considerations and difficult choices. Yoda pauses, watching the young – not so young, he reminds himself, a woman grown, she is – zabrak planting seedlings in a garden bed whose previous occupants had been uprooted for the kitchens. Her hands work busily, reliably, but her gaze is not seeing the work, and her spirit is full of conflict, a solemn sadness grappling a flickering resolution. Her brassy hair gleams in the warm glow-lights provided for the seedlings, and she smears a steak of dirt across her yellow cheek when she brushes back a stray hair.

Around her, despite her turmoil, the Living Force blossoms, curling happily into each fragile plant, dancing around her in small vortexes, like fireflies, brighter and fainter in turns, but always dancing. It blooms in her skin and colors her breath and leeches into the soil from her hands, as gossamer as sunshine but as certain as gravity.

“Intrude, may I?” Yoda asks, taking a shuffling step forwards. The force burns through him brightly, ever lifting him into its embrace, but he knows he is old, and his bones are fragile, and his body yet belongs to the earth.

She looks up, surprised, and a peachy flush infuses her cheeks as she hastily attempts to brush away dirt and smooth down her floaty hair and instead rather manages the opposite effect on both accounts. “Master Yoda! Of course.”

Yoda hums and shuffles forward to settle himself on the edge of her garden, gnarled fingers lightly gracing over the small but powerful energy of the seedlings, full of _hunger-light-growth_ and _waiting-to-be_. “Well for your dedication, they are.” Yoda comments. “Thrive, they will.”

“Thank you, master Yoda.” Iara says, bowing her head. “I am only doing my same old job, really.”

“A good job, it is.” Yoda says, looking at her. “Saturate life, you do. Bring it forth, help it grow. Brighter, are all things, for your care. Nutured much, you have, have you not? Same old job, you say. Save lives, you do. Ease hunger. Lessen sorrow. Noble, farming is.”

“But hardly the work of a Jedi.” Iara says, and then immediately gasps, ashamed to have said such a thing to him.

“Hmm.” Yoda sinks in on himself a little. “Much concern over titles, there is. Only a title, is ‘Jedi’. A child of the Force, you are. Follow its wisdom, you do. Kind, you are. Dedicated. More a less a Jedi, is that?”

“Isn’t it?” She replies, and this time not with shame, but with a challenge rooted in an old pain.

Yoda looks down in sorrow, and wonders where they have so lost their faith as to call into question what made one a Jedi. For he was not wrong – yet neither was she.

Lost more than merely their numbers, they have, against the whittling of time. Spread too thin, kept too busy, they have lost sight of their faith as well, their personal journeys and dedications to the Force pushed farther and farther aside in favor of their service to the Republic.

Less, Yoda thinks. Less, the Jedi have become. Simply… _less_.

“And a Jedi, you wish to be?” Yoda answers her question with a question.

Iara hesitates. “I believe so, Mater Yoda. But I doubt.”

“Hm. Troublesome, doubt is.” He murmurs, nodding sagely. “For ask you to be my padawan, I intended. If wish to, you do.”

Her mouth drops open, as the zabrak farmer stares at him. Yoda waits.

Patiently.

Time is of little consequence to one of his venerable age.

She squeals, brightly, excitedly, as unreservedly as a youngling, and Yoda finds himself engulfed in a happy embrace. “Yes, Master Yoda! Oh, more than anything. I accept. I accept.”

Wiggling his face into a position where he could breathe and gently patting her shoulder, Yoda smiles. “Good.” He says. “My padawan, then, you are.”

She shakes, and her happy laugh hides tears, a long, gnawing doubt in her life finally answered for.

The Jedi will endure, Yoda sighs to himself. His hopes had been a brittle thing for two years now, since a young – _not so young_ – Jedi Master had turned up in the temple, burning and brittle himself, but a beacon in the Force, and a burden upon his soul. Around him had flourished doubt, fear, darkness. The dread warning of war, and the return of an enemy not known for an age, more cunning, more sinister than ever they last knew, surviving and growing their power for a millennia in preparation for victory.

Yoda had been born in war, and he had faced a terrible dread, afraid he would die in one.

And perhaps he would yet.

But.

He could face that knowledge with his Order. And in knowing, he could be brave.

Basking in the joy of his new padawan, Yoda knew the future was never promised.

But he could be brave. Have hope. The Jedi would endure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, work was brutal this last week. But i'm back!

The Ruudovar space port was rather more reputable than most, for being so far out on the rim. Ben has traded his tunics for a heavy spacers jacket and a holster belt for the blaster’s he’s borrowed from Fett, his lightsaber concealed for now in the lining of his jacket. Civilian transports – cargo freighters, mostly – and mining guild make up most of the occupants around him, in addition to heavy compliments of various droids, and Ben keeps an eye on the astromechs, knowing too well how modifiable they were and how independently minded they could be, causing no end of trouble if they saw fit.

The Death Watch make no attempts to conceal their presence here. Ben spots a few of them wandering around the port, visiting mechanics and cantinas, all of them in their blue and black _beskar’gam_ , which makes his lip curl in distaste. Justice and reliability, with a few touches of grey and red for discipline and honor, as if they had any claim or any right to wear it.

“ _Glaring at them isn’t very subtle, Master_.” Obi-Wan chides over the comms, and Ben glances around, spying his padawan on the opposite side of the central terminal, a leather cap hiding his hair and braid, and a pair of tattered mechanic’s overalls hiding everything else, Fish, Fett’s borrowed astromech, rolling alongside him as they casually strolled towards the hangers.

Ben’s official objective was to obtain information on the whereabouts of more prestigious members of the Death Watch, those who had more intel and awareness of their operations and network, who might know where ‘recruits’ where stationed for training and indoctrination.

None of them being any kind of person to waste a perfect opportunity, Obi-Wan’s objective was to tag vessels and cargo with discreet tracking devices and locator beacons, in case Fett took it in mind to track them down later.

Or sell them out to pirates.

Fett, reluctantly, was standing by at the ship, ready in case they screwed up and needed to take off, fast. Or in case they screwed up and needed either a distraction or a rescue.

The _Mand’alor_ did not take kindly to playing in reserve, but the mission was more likely to go smoothly if they didn’t chance Fett being recognized.

“Duly noted.” Ben replies dryly, and they both can hear Fett growl out a sigh on his end of the comms. Ben and Obi-Wan share a look across the span between them and then turn back to their respective assignments.

Ben follows murmurs and sightings and the gentle instigation of the Force up to deck nine, where there are far fewer people and a lot more security.

He eyes a few security droids on standby as he walks past them, not missing the sigil of the Death Watch, the shadow of a diving shriek-hawk, painted on the yellow-and-black of the Mining Guilds.

“That’s a partnership I don’t like.” Ben murmurs. “The Mining Guild has a long reach. If the Death Watch has their favor…” It was a powerful ally, and a nasty one. The Mining Guilds were both wealthy and brutal, and they had a lot more power on this edge of the galaxy than even the Trade Federation or the Banking Clans. They had ties with more than one crime syndicate, and were one of the few who could actually rely on the Hutt Empire to support them as allies.

“ _All we can do with that knowledge is mind it, master_.” Obi-Wan says, voice hushed on his end of the connection. “ _It doesn’t change what we’re here to do…does it_?” He adds hesitantly.

Ben smiles, proud. “No.” He replies. “But it does mean that I want you to be exceptionally careful.”

“ _Always_.” Obi-Wan replies cheekily.

“That’s a bold claim.” Ben replies sardonically. “I think I distinctly recall a few instances-“

“ _Master_!” the padawan protests.

“ _Both of you_.” Fett growls, and they shut up.

~*~

Obi-Wan follows Fish as the astromech weaves around people and shrieks angrily at other droids that get in its way, burbling a constant, quiet, too-fast for organic ears stream of binary that must be the droid equivalent of muttering under its breath. Obi-Wan grins a bit childishly, wondering what the droids circuits and programming looked like. So far, he’s determined that Fish doesn’t like Fett, Fett’s ship, Fett’s acquaintances, this space port, other droids, other ships, or the mission, which the droid seemed to believe beneath its dignity. Fish _tolerated_ Obi-Wan. Thus far, Fish only seemed to appreciate children and the concept of Mandalore.

A _mandalorian_ droid. Obi-Wan was thrilled.

Obi-Wan had asked why the droid was called Fish, and had been shown a series of clip-recordings of a toddling red-skinned twi’lek boy running up to the droid with various broken toys, loudly pleading ‘Fish pwease!’ in an adorable, gap-toothed attempt at ‘Fix please!’.

The droid bleets sharply at him and Obi-Wan casts off his thoughts, focusing back on task and ducking into the service lift with the droid just as the hatch snaps shut. It’s a tight fit, but Obi-Wan is just small enough to accompany the droid as the lift zips them up through the decks, faster than organics should go and without the stabilizers to compensate for that – the service lift was for droids, obviously – and he feels queasy by the time it stops.

Fish all but runs him over when the doors snap open, and Obi-Wan grumbles at it, crawling out and taking cover behind a stack of crates marked with the shriek-hawk. They are definitely in the right hanger. Obi-Wan eyes the freight around him, and tries to decide which ones he should tag, because he does not have enough beacon to tag _all_ of them.

“What do you think, Fish?” Obi-Wan whispers, peering around the edge of one crate to spy a security droid by the hanger door and a pair of death watch mando’s boredly playing sabacc by their cargo transport, which was going to make marking the ship a little tricky. “Any chance we can check the contents without getting caught?”

Fish bleets rudely at him, which Obi-Wan takes to mean ‘ _Don’t insult me’_. Clearly, Fish is up to the challenge.

~*~

There is a rather grey area of differentiation between doing something quietly and doing something subtly, and Ben is well aware of it. He does not expect to be able to sneak into their area of operations and not get caught or accosted, and so he doesn’t try. He walks through deck nine with purpose, and actually gets pretty far before someone decides they might want to determine what his purpose is.

“ _Pare_!” One of them finally calls out for him to hold up. “Stop!” They add belatedly, which tells Ben that whomever is under than blue and black bucket hasn’t been off their homeworld long, still more used to being able to converse with anyone and everyone around them in Mando’a rather than Basic.

Ben turns to them, cocking one hip and laying his hand over his blaster like any seasoned spacer getting called out in port.

“State your business.” The mando barks, voice holding the slight strain of someone younger trying to sound experienced. Ben levels their visor with his flattest, most unimpressed look, and to his credit the mando doesn’t shift uneasily. Then again, even youngsters among the Mandalorians held a certain intrinsic stoic aggression that defied authority.

“My business here _is_ business.” Ben says, easing around the mando’s mind in the Force. Mandalorian stubbornness made their people more resistant to Jedi mind tricks, but not invulnerable, and Death Watch indoctrination, depending on how hard the individual in question had to be broken in order for them to be reshaped into Death Watch’s mold, often shattered that natural defense. There would be some suggestions that would never take, revolving around the individuals convictions and fanatic-like mental programing, and others that took too easily. “You _want_ to show me to your data terminal.”

“I _want_ to show you to our data terminal.” The mando repeats, voice slightly dazed. “This is a matter of business.”

Ben gestures, and the mando leads the way. Others glance at them, and then shrug them off, assuming all is well.

“Rook, who is this?” Another mando does question them once they enter the secured servor room, though he seems more irritated than alarmed at Ben’s presence.

“A business partner.” Rook answers dully.

“He looks like a bounty hunter.” The other mando mutters. “Or a smuggler. I hate dealing with smugglers. Swindlers and liars, the lot of them.”

“I’m an information dealer.” Ben suggests, casting his senses out into the room to make sure no one else was hiding behind a server bank or behind the back door.

“You’re an information dealer.” Rook and the other repeat. Ben frowns a little, surprised at how easy he found it to pull two minds at once, but shrugs it off. A Jedi’s power had limits, this was true, but like the Force and their understanding of it, it never really stopped expanding.

“I have information on something very important to the Death Watch.” Ben suggests to Rook, while pressing the other to lose interest in their conversation. “You’ll want to direct me to someone who can better utilize that information.”

“It’s very important.” Rook repeats, sitting down at one of the terminals, inputting his passcodes and opening the databanks. Ben smiles, laying one hand on the mando’s shoulder and watching data fill up the display.

~*~

“Someone wants to cause a lot of explosions.” Obi-Wan mutters, when yet another crate turns out to contain high-density blasting charges.

“ _Jed’ika_ ,” Fett sighs over the comms. “ _we need to work on your mandalorian appreciation for weapons packages._ ”

“How about,” Obi-Wan counter-suggests irritably. “ we work on making sure Death Watch can’t blow up more depots on Mandalore?”

Fett is quiet on the other end for a moment. There had been an increase in incidents of Death Watch attacking civilian targets – museums, ports, and, more critically, agricultural depots, threatening an already uncertain food security on a planet suffering drastic ecological decline.

“ _Tag the munitions and the vessels_.” Fett reports tersely, and Obi-Wan winces at the dark edge of his tone. “ _And don’t be seen_.”

Obi-Wan frowns, casting his awareness about, making sure the mando’s still hadn’t moved. They haven’t, but Obi-Wan is less certain of his ability to sense the security droids, and moves cautiously, peeking around corners and over crates and putting a lot of faith in Fish’s proximity sensors. He fixes the tags on the underside of the crates, tucked up against the anti-grav emitters, and eyes the empty space between the cargo and the transport.

He’d never make it to either vessel without being spotted. He eyes the small tags in his hands thoughtfully.

“Fish, any mouse droids around here?” Obi-Wan asks.

Fish beeps dourly, and then pings, before zooming off. Obi-Wan tenses, glaring after the indignant droid. Two minutes later, Fish rolls back, herding a nervously whistling mouse droid along under threat of a welding torch.

“Easy, Fish!” Obi-Wan protests, putting a hand on the small, box-like service droid, which hides against his knee from the astromech. Fish blurps irritably, going off in mulish sounding binary too fast to translate, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

“Hey little guy,” Obi-Wan pats the mouse droid. “ I have a favor to ask.”

The mouse droid trills curiously and spins, waiting.

No one pays it any attention as it zooms across the hanger, beep-beeping busily as it bustles under first one transport, and then the second, and no one notices the small little tags hovering in its shadow, nor affixing themselves in between the bolts of the landing struts.

Obi-Wan holds his hand out, gaze zeroed on the little devices, but he moves them and manipulates the controls more by feel than anything else. He still hasn’t figured out the real lesson behind his sand exercise, but he can gratefully say that he has a better grasp of fine manipulations than most young knights. When Fish reports that they’ve successfully been attached and are in stand-by mode, Obi-Wan lets his focus yield, his senses dimming and drawing back towards himself.

“Alright,” He murmurs. “Let’s get back.”

~*~

Obi-Wan makes it back after his master, strolling up the ramp after him. Master Ben turns and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Any problems?” He inquires.

“Nope.” Obi-Wan reports gladly and with emphasis. “You?”

“Everything went according to plan.” Ben replies.

They both pause, glancing suspiciously at each other.

“ _Don’t_.” Ben warns.

“I wasn’t going to!” Obi-Wan protests.

Eyeing the space port behind them warily, they both head towards the cockpit.

“We should leave.”

“Yeah, _quickly_.”


	8. Chapter 8

Siri glares at her reflection on the wall. At her too thin face, at her sweat-damp, too short hair, at her weak, shaking limbs. She heaves in air, and heaves out, and forces her feet to move and her arms to lift. Her form isn’t good enough. She has to do better. She _will_ do better.

There is an art to light dispersal in the temple, to filling the warren of halls and chambers with a natural illumination, or a natural seeming illumination, and the training salles, despite being far from any exterior wall, are no different. Light spills through what look like high, opaque windows, pale and soft to match the early morning hour. Early, _early_ morning hour. The padawan salles are all but deserted, which suit Siri perfectly. She doesn’t want to be seen like this, not when she feels so….weak. So pathetic.

Growling at herself in frustration as her legs wobble, Siri grits her teeth and turns, shifting her balance, forcing her arms to hold themselves up as she moves slowly through the kata. She has to perfect this. Has to do better. _Be_ better. If she had been better….

“Siri!” Her master calls out, voice full of relief and scolding in equal measure, and Siri flinches. She recovers quickly, dropping out of the form and straightening up, smoothing down her light tunics, which drape off her frame now for her lack of proper weight. She’s not gaining it back as well as the healers would like. It’s not the best time for a growth spurt, but there is little that anyone can do about it. They increase her nutrition and calorie intake, but Siri is getting sick of eating six times a day.

Which makes her feel wretched, remembering what it was like with the other kids on the streets, scrounging through empty houses, or in the labor camp, when hunger was a constant gnawing, never satisfied by the thin, meager rations that weren’t quite enough to keep _everyone_ alive. But she eats and eats and then has to stop herself from wretching, forcing her meals to stay down, and she doesn’t understand why she can’t just do this one thing right, why she can’t just-

“Siri, what are doing?” Master Adi asks, her tone gentle but never quite soft. Siri envies her master bitterly sometimes, because Knight Gallia is strong, always, and she never falters. Even older master’s respect her strength and wisdom and character, despite her relatively young age, and Siri wants so much to be just like her, to make her proud.

“Exercising, master.” Siri replies, trying to quell the fact that she was nearly panting for breath.

Master Adi frowns at her, and Siri looks away, over her master’s shoulder as opposed to in her eyes. The violet bruises are fading from her master’s skin, though the discoloration is still blotchy on her hair pods, and Siri feels her stomach clench, remembering the absolute terror she felt when the building exploded, and her master had _needed_ her, and Siri had just – Siri had just run away.

“Siri, you should be resting.”

“I’m fine!” Siri insists quickly, her tone sharp and defensive.

“Siri.” Her master sighs, and Siri squirms guiltily, her eyes burning. She’s messing up, she knows she is. But she’s _trying_. She _is_.

“I won’t fall behind in my training, master.” Siri says. “I swear.”

“Siri, this isn’t about that. You’re still recovering, you need to rest.”

“I’ll do better.” Siri insists, hands clenching into fists. Her master was wounded far worse, and she’s already returned to her duties. Siri can do the same. She can keep up. “I’m ready to keep training, master.”

“No, you aren’t.” Master Adi says firmly, reaching out to rest a hand on Siri’s shoulder, and Siri shakes her off, because she doesn’t need to be coddled. She isn’t a _youngling_ , She’s _stronger_ than this, _better_ than this-

Her vision blurs with tears, and Siri blinks furiously, trying to force them away. She _isn’t_ going to cry.

Her master sighs again, drawing her hand back down to her side. “Siri, please look at me.”

Siri doesn’t want to, shame filling her up. Master Adi is patient, she waits, immovable, and Siri knows her master will wait forever if she has to, just to prove a point. Master Adi is unyielding like that.

Siri draws in a shaky breath and meets her master’s violet gaze. There is nothing in her master’s gaze but sorrow and compassion, and Siri feels her tears start to run down her face, despite her best efforts.

“S-sorry, soory, master.” She sniffles, trying to wipe them away, feeling _stupid_.

“No, Siri, I’m sorry.” Adi says quietly, gentle, but never quite soft. “I failed you, and you have every right to be angry with me-“

“What?” Siri says shrilly. “Master, I’m _not_ angry with you! I’m angry with _me_!”

Her master pauses, and Siri takes a hiccup breathe, fists clenched even tighter, her nails digging into her palms. “ _I_ failed you. On – on Rohst, when the building blew up I – I ran away. I was a coward, and you _needed_ me. And then I couldn’t even protect those other kids, I couldn’t even protect _myself_ , and we got captured because of me, and I-“

“Siri Tachi.” Master Adi says, something indefinable in her voice, and her lays both hands on Siri’s shoulders, gripping her firmly so her padawan can’t shrug her off this time. “ _No_.”

Siri shuts her mouth with a click, and sets her jaw stubbornly, eyes still burning.

“Padawan,” Master Adi says. “ you did everything you could. You survived, on your own, when I should have been there to protect you. Listen to me!” Her grip tightens when Siri opens her mouth to protest. “ I am your master, and I brought you into a situation far beyond your level of skill, and you pulled through it regardless. On your own, in a terrible situation, with all odds against you. Siri, I am proud of you, and I am so sorry for what you suffered because of me. Can you forgive me.”

“I wasn’t mad at you.” Siri says quietly. Master Adi’s brows draw together. “I wasn’t mad at you.” Siri repeats, insistent.

“You should have been.” Master Adi says calmly.

“Well, I wasn’t!” Siri snaps, getting mad _now_. And her master, infuriatingly, smiles fondly for it.

“I’ll take your word for it, padawan.” She says. “But will you forgive me nonetheless?”

Siri stares at her master, at her bruises and her violet eyes and the tight line between her brows and realizes that her master was scared too. Siri swallows tightly, wiping her cheeks off with the back of one hand before looking back resolutely and nodding.

Something fragile wavers in her masters expression and then she pulls Siri into a tight hug. “Thank you.” She says, in her low, bold voice that Siri trusts, above everything.

“I still need to be better, master.” Siri says, muffled against her masters tunics. “I was so scared and useless, and I don’t want to-“

“We’ll get better together, padawan.” Master Adi shushes her, running a hand over Siri’s shorn head. “I swear to you.”

Siri nods into her tunics, and Master Adi steps back. “But for the moment, we _both_ need to rest. And I have something for you.”

Siri frowns up at her master, whom she has no doubt is attempting to distract her from the first half of that sentence by the allure of the second half.

“But you’re working on something important, Master.” Siri says. “You’ve been so busy, and then that report came out, and you don’t need to coddle me, I can-“

“Siri.” Master Adi chides, and then pauses. She sighs. “Now I understand.”

Siri looks up, her expression a question.

“ ‘May you have a padawan just like you’ is the curse set down by every grandmaster in history, and surely mine is laughing now.” Master Adi says, to Siri’s confused disgruntlement. “Let me just say that I came to find you shortly after Master Rancisis came to find me, and scolded me for getting ahead of myself. I do mean it when I say we _both_ need to rest, Siri. Our work is important, but so are we. We have to take care of ourselves in order to be capable of taking care of everything else.”

“I suppose.” Siri agrees reluctantly. Then she looks back up, intrigued. “So what _do_ you have for me?”

Master Adi smirks lightly and turns to guide her back to the Halls of Healing. “Well, I’m only passing it along, really.” She says, reaching into your pocket. “Your friends made you a gift.”

She draws out a closed hand and hold it for Siri to take. Siri holds up her hands and her master drops the object into it. Siri blinks, and then frowns sharply.

It’s a padawan braid, strands of black, auburn, brown and white woven together, clasped on one end by a coral fastener that had to come from Bant and a silka bead on the other end that probably came from Tsui. It’s hideous looking.

Siri laughs, her eyesight blurring again. “They’re so _awful_.” She declares.

“Siri, they’re your friends.”

“I _know_.”


	9. Chapter 9

Vhr-wuuum.

Snap-hiss.

Vwuhm-vhruuum.

There was something about the sound of a lightsaber that drew you to it, that heightened your senses and sharpened your focus; and something about the sound of two lightsabers – or in this case, a lightsaber and the darksaber – crashing together that broke a chill over your skin.

Energy arced and spat between the two blades, flashing like a storm every time they met, and to Obi-Wan it seemed very fitting. The two men in the hold below him were very much like storms. His master calling upon the visceral flare of fire and the persistent, tenacious wind of scouring sand. And the Mand’alor drawing in the image of building thunderheads, dark and roiling, and the crashing fall of merciless hail. The closed confines of the transports hold made Obi-Wan nervous, as he watched them spar. Neither man was fit to be contained, their energies leeching into the durasteel and recycled air, their blades just barely checked from tearing into panels and power lines.

Fett was _good_ with the Darksaber. But for all his martial style, he had the hallmarks of the self-taught, and though his skill would undoubtedly outdo any challenger, it wasn’t up to par with that of a Jedi and their lightsaber. He was slower, for one, and Obi-Wan could plainly tell that Fett respected his weapon, but he didn’t trust the blade. He was attuned to it, but he didn’t have the Force to enhance his reflexes, to guide his movements, to channel that raw energy not only through the weapon, but through himself in an unbroken conduit. A single mistake in his skill or technique, and that weapon could devastate him as easily as it could devastate his opponent, and he knew it. And he feared it.

Not that Obi-Wan was going to point _that_ out. Let Master Ben do that, and suffer the consequences.

“ _Is this a bad time_?”

Obi-Wan watches Fett turn in, his blade carefully angled up and away from himself, though his hilt was pulled close to his chest, dodging Master Ben – well, Master Ben’s blade, at least. Fett stepped right in to the knee in his groin. To be fair, he reacted quickly, though Master Ben probably wasn’t expecting him to punch back with his saber-hand, the lit blade still clenched in it.

Obi-Wan winces as Master Ben staggers back, bringing up a deft defense with his lightsaber to parry Fett’s darksaber, his other hand cupping his mouth and his eyes burning with a glare for the singed lock of hair by his eye. Fett smirks. Like Ben, he’s down to his undershirt and bodysuit, forgoing his armor as the Jedi had forgone his concordian silk tunics.

“No.” Obi-Wan replies, moving along the railing to sink down with his back to the wall. It limits his view of the spar, sitting like this, but he doesn’t mind.

On the holo-call, Satine looks skeptical. Obi-Wan, his attention fully on her now, frowns as well. “Where _are_ you?” He inquires.

Satine blinks a moment, gathering her thoughts, and her mouth twists a little as she thinks, considering what to tell him. Obi-Wan smiles a little at the minute play of expressions on her face. She’s more expressive than she realizes, perhaps. “ _I’m in a closet_.” She finally says.

Obi-Wan lifts a brow.

Satine blushes faintly, and fixes him with a scowl as if it were somehow his fault. “ _The other girls at the academy have been…persistent, in attempting to reengineer my social life. I’m rather avoiding them._ ”

“That sounds…fascinating.” Obi-Wan replies, humored. Satine’s scowl darkens further.

“ _It is not_.” She says flatly.

“From a Jedi perspective.” Obi-Wan points out. Satine looks momentarily confused, and then a little dawn of understanding clears her expression up.

“ _What I would not give for such an insular upbringing right now_.” She mutters.

“It can’t be that terrible.” Obi-Wan suggests. “What are they trying to do, get you to sneak out to some illicit party or set you up with a suitor?”

“ _There is some sort of scavenger hunt involving pictures taken in certain places, acquiring certain possessions and recording certain people saying certain things for you, some of which requires minor breaking and entering, petty theft, and no small amount of social manipulation_.” Satine says dryly. “ _I am not interested in such adolescent carelessness_.”

“You do realize that by any definition, you and I _are_ adolescents?” Obi-Wan points out, pushing down a grin at her so called ‘predicament’.

“ _Not by Mandalorian standards_.” Satine refutes. Obi-Wan pouts, because she does have a point. At fifteen, she was old enough to forge armor, fight for her clan and honor, and swear to the _Resol’nare_ but there was still a somewhat grey area in the Mandalorian transition to adulthood. For example, she wasn’t considered old enough to take on children herself, and there was a difference between being old enough to fight as an adult and actually having fought for yourself as an adult.

“Well, you aren’t on Mandalore. You’re on Coruscant. Enjoy adolescence, be a little careless.” Obi-Wan says.

“ _I am not allowing you to live vicariously through me, Padawan Kenobi_.” Satine mutters, eyeing him. Obi-Wan grins. Jedi may live an insular existence, but they weren’t as dry and mundane as they often presented themselves as. Padawans his age had their fair share of drama and pranks to amuse themselves with. Strictly speaking, so did knights _twice_ his age.

“Well, just dash all my hopes and dreams, Satine Kryze.” Obi-Wan teases, and she huffs, looking up and away because she was too proper to roll her eyes.

“ _You forgot to add ‘and crush them beneath your heel’_.” She says coolly.

“How very Mandalorian of you.” Obi-Wan says, watching her eyes gleam bright with humor. “Speaking, of, how is-“ He pauses, when the light flashes particularly brightly, and he glances down to see Fett and Master Ben locked together, power arcing between their blades dangerously as they grit their teeth and attempted to overpower the other. For two men of similar build, weight, and physical dedication, that could go either way for them. Likely, it would go to whoever broke the stalemate by palying dirty first. “ – your training going?” Obi-Wan asks, dragging his eyes back to the holo-call.

“ _Are you certain this is a good time_?” Satine questions. “ _What_ are _you doing?_ ”

“This assignment is….delicate.” Obi-Wan says, hesitating and glancing away from her gaze, which is piercing even in holo. “I can’t share any details. But we’re only in transit now, and my master is….” Obi-Wan glanced down to the hold beneath the railing. “…amusing himself.”

Master Ben glances up with a short, irritated look, and Fett takes his brief lack of attention as a good chance to head-butt the other man. The deadlock breaks.

“Please try _not_ to break his nose!” Obi-Wan calls down, and Fett scoffs, blade twirling in hand as he advances. Master Ben rolls his shoulders and brings his blade up, ready. “ _Either_ of you!” Obi-Wan adds sharply, seeing the glint in their eyes.

On the other side of the catwalk, Fish bleets something that comes across to Obi-Wan as something very like ‘ _spoilsport_!’

He focuses back on his holo-call, and Satine is giving him a _look_.

Obi-Wan lifts his brows innocently, and repeats his inquiry. “Your training?” He asks. “With your new dancing tutor?”

“ _It’s_ ….” Satine pauses thoughtfully. “ _not what I expected. I suppose I thought my teacher might try and change me, but it’s…she challenges me, but she never tries to prove my ideals wrong. It’s not what I expected from…”_

“From a True Mandalorian?” Obi-Wan finishes for her, lowering his voice and glancing down at Fett, but he’s fully engaged with his self-defense at the moment.

“ _Yes_.” Satine says quietly. “ _And other than that….”_ Satine takes a deep breath _. “ I have an utterly new and utmost respect for Twi’lek. I think even the Mand’alor’s standard of flexibility, balance, and speed would pale in comparison to a rylothi dancers. I’m not entirely convinced I even have the musculature for some of the stretches she’s attempting to contort me into, but I can truly say I’ve never understood self-discipline more clearly_.”

“That’s….good?” Obi-Wan tries, and Satine smiles at him like he’s an idiot, albeit one she’s fond of.

“ _Yes_.” She says plainly. “ _And so are ice baths_.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’m familiar with ice baths. There’s a standard ‘fresher setting in the Temple for that sort of thing. Ice baths and steam boxes. Some days we start with the latter and end-“

“Obi-Wan!” Master Ben calls up in a huff. “Your turn.”

Obi-Wan clicks his mouth shut, glancing down to see Master Ben wiping sweat off his brow and Fett with his arms crossed, waiting impatiently.

“ _Time to go_?” Satine questions.

“Afraid so.” Obi-Wan mutters glumly, pulling himself up by the railing. Satine bids him good luck, Obi-Wan tells her she should brave her classmates, and they sign off. “Who won?” Obi-Wan asks, hopping over the railing and letting himself drop to the plating below with a metallic thump.

“I yielded.” Master Ben admits, tugging ruefully at his seared lock of hair with a sigh. “My beard was in grave danger.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “You could do with a shave.”

“Not on your life, padawan mine.” Master ben retorts bluntly, and Obi-Wan smirks, removing his tabards and tunic, pausing only briefly to massage his wrist under the brace. His hand goes numb, sometimes, and he has to work the feeling back into it. Essja had warned him of the potential for long term nerve damage, and he was learning to adjust to it. He had little choice in the matter. Fett eyes the action critically, and Obi-Wan resists the urge to try and hide it.

At present, their ship was currently hiding in the shadow of the moon of a moon, waiting for a Death Watch operative to return to the system, which the Death Watch used as a drop-point and neutral meeting location for less trustworthy associations. Their intel said the man in question passed through regularly to refuel, so they had to sit, and wait.

And waiting for an indeterminate period meant finding ways to pass the time.

Being who they were, that meant training.

Obi-Wan takes his lightsaber in hand and takes a breath. He’s held it often enough, his new saber, but rarely used it. He won’t spar against his friends with it, and his master has grown less and less patient with his hesitance. It still feels heavy in his hand, not quite attuned to him, for all that the crystals sing out, teasing around his senses, settling in his bones with a riveting rush of energy, and a prodding _urge_ , like a tide pushing up inside him, like a precipice beneath his feet, to -

Obi-Wan grinds his teeth and grounds himself, letting the rush pass through, and he can sense his master’s disapproval of the reluctance in his actions. Fett’s too.

Obi-Wan checks the setting on his blade instead of looking up at either of them, making sure it was still on its lowest power setting (it was, it always was). Three crystals and a focusing element put his weapon on par with very few other Jedi’s – his own masters for one, but Master Ben, _being_ Master Ben, didn’t count, and Master Windu’s, for another – and Obi-Wan was still wary of holding that much power in his hands. Not only because of the explosion, but because… because Obi-Wan knew there were battles coming. Knew that the Sith were out there. Knew that maybe, just maybe, this weapon was exactly what he needed to fight that war his master was preparing him for, but….

But sometimes, Obi-Wan looks at his master, who is kind and patient and wise, but who is also brittle and ferocious and wounded, and he is afraid of the path he sees before him. Of all that intensity and power and the sorrow that accompanies it.

It’s a silly, selfish sort of fear. He is a Jedi, and he will be whatever the galaxy needs him to be, and yet… and yet sometimes he wonders if he couldn’t have had an easier path. He looks at his fellow padawans, who don’t know about the Sith, who aren’t doubted by the Reconciliation Council as to their loyalties, who didn’t have to dig up the slow death facing their Order, who don’t half-walk to the door in the middle of the night, afraid their master is caught in a nightmare because maybe they heard something… and he wonders.

Because the weapon in his hands promises Trials in his future, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to face them. And he isn’t sure what facing them might turn him into.

“Well, _Jed’ika_?” Fett prompts, uncrossing his arms and reigniting the darksaber, giving it an experimental swing. The strange blade crackles, its shape less defined than a traditional lightsaber, and Obi-Wan wonders how it was made, all those centuries ago, and wonders at the fact that it hasn’t ever been remade.

Obi-Wan takes a breath and adjusts his grip. He ignites his blade, a charged, burning line of deep, dark jade, haloed in brighter, summer green. It’s not as flashy as his master’s violet-touched copper blade, or as unnerving and formidable as the darksaber, but there is something striking about it nonetheless, less definable in its impression. Something about it speaks of time, of hidden depths and old lore, deep roots and unbroken foundations.

And even to an observer, it isn’t a blade that looks like it belongs in the boys hand. It looks like there is more to it than he is ready to handle, no matter how bold and brave. He is still young, still a little undefined himself.

Obi-Wan breathes and brings the blade up in a guard position.

Fett eyes him, the green reflected off his face. “It suits you.” He says unexpectedly. Obi-Wan’s brow furrows. Fett smirks, bringing his own blade up. “I can tell from here you’re about hopeless, _jed’ika_ , but it suits you. The color.” He nods.

Obi-Wan’s expression twists sourly at the jab, and he tightens his grip.

“Green,” Fett comments, and lunges with a straightforward strike, which Obi-Wan meets with a simple cross-guard block. Energy sings between the blades, throwing sparks. “ is the color of promise, and duty.” He presses down, and Obi-Wan adjusts his stance to allow himself to slide away, out of reach. Fett let’s Obi-Wan go. They all know the padawan will lose this match.

The only question is how long that loss takes.


	10. Chapter 10

The problem with lying in wait was often that those you were waiting for could present unknowable variables. The benefit of Jedi were that they were excellent at adapting to variable situations.

One would assume that it would balance out.

If you don’t forget that Mandalorians, are, by nature, _always_ an unknown variable.

Five deep shadows pass over Obi-Wan’s position, and the jedi padawan hunkers down, eyes on the sky and the sunlight reflecting off the sleek lines of the vessels.

They’d descended onto the moons surface when the other ships had entered the system, parking their vessel out of sight and powering down in case they were scanned. The small fueling station and wharehouse compliment was manned only by a few service droids to maintain the inventory and fuel systems, and otherwise relied on secrecy for security. Sneaking onto the ledge of a munitions bunker had been too easy.

“ _Obi-Wan_?”

“I have eyes on Tam Saxon.” Obi-Wan reports dully. “And five of his friends. _And_ their fighters. That’s a lot of fire power.” Obi-Wan adds, eyeing the laser cannons and coming up with four on each vessel, their wings rotating into a bat-like structure as they landed, thrusters pumping out sonic heat and hissing as they powered down. Obi-Wan scanned the ships, chewing on the inside of his lip. Three vessels were painted in Death Watch blue and black, two in more discreet white and green, and one in flagrant yellow and black which suggested it might have a permanent attachment to a Mining Guild operation, given their connections to the Death watch. “Actually, I’m not sure which one has Tam Saxon.” Obi-Wan adds, as the crews started departing, their armor either Death Watch blue and back with few detail variations or Mining Guild yellow and white. No Clan markings or colors, no blatant individuality. Obi-Wan frowns at that. A Mandalorian did not _hide_ behind their armor, and no one should doubt who they were looking at when they saw it. Death Watch smothering their individuality was just one of many wrongs.

“ _Six_ Kom’rk _class fighter transports.”_ Fett mutters through the comm. _“ And I count sixteen bodies.”_

“ _They’re crewed light.”_ Master Ben comments. “Kom’rk _class are built for four crew and up to what, two dozen passengers_?”

“ _The larger models_.” Fett says. “ _These are Class 2. A little smaller, a lot faster. Still built for four crew, but they carry half as many passengers to make room for more fuel_.”

Obi-Wan follows their conversation idly, trying to determine if he can identify Tam Saxon amidst all the rest, but his eyes do drag back to the ships. There’s some ion scoring on the yellow-and-black, and the paint on two of the blue vessels looks strafed, though from comet dust or conflict he can’t tell, but other than that…

“They’re new.” Obi-Wan says thoughtfully. “They’re new, and they aren’t stolen, or our scans would have flagged their ident frequencies.”

“ _That’s not cheap_.” Fett mutters.

“ _Doesn’t have to be if MandalMotors is with the Death Watch_.” Master Ben replies critically.

“Haar’chak.” Fett curses lowly. “ _MandalMotors in the biggest corporation on Mandalore, and one of the oldest_.”

“ _And yet they’re weathering Mandalore’s economic decline…suspiciously well_.” Master Ben sighs bitterly. “ _Particularly given that Corellia’s new YT series vastly outperforms on the market over MandalMotors G series_.”

Obi-Wan shifts his position, feeling his own frustration build up. “But if they’re tied to Death Watch, and Death Watch is tied to the Mining Guild - _fuck_.”

“ _Language_.” Both men snap halfheartedly.

“Not that!” Obi-Wan hisses. “I think I was just spotted.”

~*~

“I’m still not convinced this is the right course of action.” Master Sifo-Dyas says, nervously pulling one of his hair-tails through his fingers.

“Mace?” Adi inquires, turning her steely violet gaze from one councilor to the other, utterly unperterubed by Sifo-Dyas’ countenance. The three jedi are currently sequestered in a small chamber not far from the Halls of Healing, in light of Knight Gallia’s limited mobility, and despite the respect they hold for each other and the support their actions have, the meeting cannot help but feel a little clandestine.

“I agree with Master Sifo-Dyas.” Master Windu sighs. “I am not convinced that this is the right course of action. However,” he pauses, pinching his brow. “ it may be our only option. I just…my vision is clouded. Uncertain.”

His statement does not appear to soothe Sido-Dyas’ nerves. “As is mine.”

“We cannot always rely on precognition and visions, masters.” Adi says resolutely, a mountain concealed in the slim frame of a woman. “Sometimes, we must rely solely on ourselves. We are Jedi, and we can weather this storm.”

“Says the woman casting thunderbolts.” Master Windu remarks dryly, lowering his hand from his face to give her a look. Adi ignores him with grace.

“Master Sifo-Dyas, simply tell me that it _can_ be done.” She asks, arms crossed, violet gaze relentless as it met his own brown eyes.

“I’ve gone through the accounts and the charges. We’ll have to restructure ourselves a bit – draw more internal support from the Corps, which may interrupt some of their missions and what they can provide to the galaxy at large, but the Order can sustain the losses. Materially speaking.”

“Excellent, Master Sifo-Dyas.” Adi nods firmly.

“Politcially speaking, Knight Gallia….” Sifo-Dyas adds, and then trails off under the sheer cool immutability of the spirit behind her stare.

“I’ll leave the Order’s finances in your hands, Master Sifo-Dyas.” She says. “Kindle entrust the politics to mine.”

Master Windu pinches his lips, eyeing both of them with a severe frown, but says nothing.

“Of course, Knight Gallia.” Sifo-Dyas demures.

“Thank you.” She nods, tension easing a little in regards to the seer. Then she turns to Master Windu and lifts an unimpressed brow. “ Now, if you could be so kind as to find me Master Jinn.”

Mace’s brows rise up in incredulity. “Master Jinn?” He repeats.

Adi’s brow lowers flatly. “I have need of his acquaintances. And perhaps his reputation.”

“Must _I_?”

“You are friends, are you not?” The tholotian knight questions.

“Friends?” Master Sifo-Dyas interjects, disbelieving. “The two of them can hardly-“ He quell himself again, under a hard look from the harun kal. Still, the enmity between Master Windu and Master Jinn was legendary throughout the Temple.

“In spite of better judgement.” Master Windu grudgingly admits.

“Hardly.” Knight Gallia snorts. “The two of you are a remarkable compliment. It’s a shame you can’t be more often placed together in the field.”

Both councilors regard her in surprise, and she looks blandly between them.

“Someone would die.” Master Sifo-Dyas says blatantly.

“Hold on,” Mace protests, lifting a hand. “ we aren’t _that_ bad.”

“You do understand that there is an incident reporting system that gets flagged every time the two of you are seen together in public.” Sifo-Dyas inquires honestly. “Padawans have _literally_ summoned Temple Guardians for fear that an argument between the two of you would escalate to violence.”

“That was _once_.” Mace grumbles.

“ _Twice_.” Knight Gallia corrects. “But regardless of your inability to behave decorously in each others company outside the Council Chambers, and sometimes within, you do have the best luck when it comes to tracking the man down. If he actually heeded his comm, believe me, I would spare you the effort.”

“His padawan can generally be relied upon to mind him these days.” Mace says with a small huff at their accusations. “But I will attend to it. Though I am curious as to why you require Master Jinn and his connections? In so far as I am aware, your acquaintances are meritous enough.”

“I no longer consider my own channels within the senate to be uncompromised.” Adi says flatly. “ But I doubt any force moving against us will expect me to act in this manner nor acquire help from this particular sector. Master Jinn is, as ever, a wildcard. I intend to use him to our advantage.”

Mace runs a hand over his bald head and nods, sighing again. “As ever, Knight Gallia, you have the councils support in this matter.” He closes his eyes briefly. “May the Force be with us.”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Haar'chak = Damn it!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR: AAAAaaaaaahhh. Took me four days to do this chapter piece by piece. Got a promotion at work, switched my schedule around, did a few fourteen hour days, i'm doing great, guys X)

“Fish, get us in the air!” Fett snaps.

“Obi-Wan?” Ben repeats direly, fist clenched around his comm. Fett looks at him, face rigid and eyes dark, tense and waiting.

“ _Yep, they definitely spotted me_.” Obi-Wan chuffs over the comm, which crackled a bit.

“We’re on our way.” Ben reports, lurching as the ship ungently lifted off, the droid whirring sharply.

“ _Good. That’s good_.” Obi-Wan replies, sounding distracted. “ _I have a plan_.”

“You have a plan?” Ben repeats positively, blatantly ignoring that the first plan had been ‘do recon. Report back. Don’t be seen.’

“ _I’m faster than they are. This should work_.” Ben can practically see the small, considering frown on his padawans’ face, the sharp edge to his gaze as he evaluated his options, the almost reckless shrug as he committed to a likely less than ideal course of action.

“Should?” Ben repeats, less positively. “Obi-Wan, what _is_ your plan?”

“I see him.” Fett mutters, standing beside the pilots chair, one hand gripping it tightly. Ben steps up beside him, looking out the viewport, and yes, he sees his padawan. Obi-Wan is a streak of grey and black running full tilt towards a fuel shed, ten mandos in hot pursuit and the other six breaking off to flank on either side, blasters out but not firing – no one wants to blow up the depot.

“We can’t scoop him up from there!” Fett growls, turning to drop down into the nose gun.

“No.” Ben agrees, but grabs the _Mand’alor’_ s arm, holding him up. “I don’t think that’s the plan. Give him a moment.”

Fett’s lip turns in a grimace of an unspoken snarl, clearly disliking that directive, but he does wait, looking doubtfully through the viewscreen, spine and shoulders tense with bridled violence. The very picture of a Mandalorian on the edge of conflict.

Obi-Wan doesn’t slow down as he nears the fuel shed, nor does he divert to go around it or use it for cover. His stride takes him right to the wall, and he jumps, plants one foot, then the other, and leaps off the wall, turning in the arc and hitting the ground at a run – straight back into those chasing him, who falter to slow down and bring their blasters up, still cautious of the explosive contents just behind the infiltrator should they miss. They hesitate, and that is all Obi-Wan needs to draw on the Force, enhancing his speed, and taking another leap, making a perfect ataru flip over their heads, and bolting back towards the landing platform and into the nearest ship, one of the blue-and-blacks.

Fett huffs.

“What are the chances those controls will be locked down?” Ben inquires, watching the ramp seal as the mandos turn angrily, running back towards the platform.

“You expect an awful lot of caution from Mandalorian terrorists who set down on a secret fuel station.” Fett remarks blandly.

Ben tips his head. “Fair point.” He lifts his comm. “Padawan?”

“ _A little busy_.” Obi-Wan drawls. In the next moment, just as the mandos come into firing range with their blasters, the engines are lighting up. “ _You can do your part anytime_.” His padawan adds, a touch irritated.

“Oh, but it was your plan.” Ben remarks primly. “I would not have dared interfere without permission.”

“ _Master_.” Obi-Wan growls, getting the ship up in the air, blaster-fire searing dangerously close to the rear power couplings.

Fish brings their ship in, and the mandos turn, firing on them. Fett’s ship is light on weaponry, with only a forward and aft turret, but the shields are very impressive, and the blasterfire splashes harmlessly.

Ben looks to Fett. “Shall we?” He inquires, brow lifting.

Fett gives him an impatient look and stalks past him, picking up his bucket and securing it on his head. “Fish, drop the ramp.”

The droid whistles rudely.

“ _Fish_!”

Fish whistles shrilly, and Ben can feel the atmosphere shift as the ramp starts opening, trading air. “Thank you for your cooperation, Fish.” Ben says gamely, which causes the droid’s dome to spin, the optical lense narrowing in on him. Ben gives the droid a jaunty salute as he turns and lopes after Fett.

“You know,” Ben calls, shedding his robe in preparation for combat and laying it over the rail on his way down into the hold. The wind tugs at him, and Fett is braced near the entrance waiting for the ramp to turn down. “ my padawan may have exactly the right idea.”

Fett cocks his head, displaying his attention behind the black of his visor.

“Those are six _very_ nice ships.” Ben comments. “Unless you think it would be too difficult to capture _all_ of them?”

“Sixteen on four?” Fett scoffs. “Paltry odds.”

Ben smiles agreeably. “Just so.”

Blasterfire skitters off the ramp, as it bridges the shield, and both of them whip towards the intrusion, Ben scowling.

“Yes, yes.” He mutters, striding down the ramp towards whirling air and danger. “You have our attention.”

~*~

Obi-Wan jerks the controls and cringes when the ship lists and lurches jarringly, both faster and more sensitive than the simulators he trained on in the temple. Furthermore, all the labels are in mando’a, and Obi-Wan discovers that he lacks a greater grasp of technical terms, understanding maybe one function out of every three.

“Don’t press any big, pretty buttons.” Obi-Wan mutters to himself, which had been lesson number one in operating unfamiliar vessels.

“ _Keep them on the ground, padawan_.” His master commed him. “ _We want to take those ships_.”

“Master, that’s… “ Obi-Wan trails off doubtfully, though he does as he’s told, canting his ship in a swaying pattern over the other five to keep them grounded, wincing when he goes too low and scrapes paint. Stealing a ship to escape imminent danger was one thing, but just outright theft…. It wasn’t the Jedi way.

“ _We’re merely_ – “His master grunts with a sharp hiss, and Obi-Wan leans forward in his seat, looking down at the ground, which did his mediocre flying no favors, to see a copper blade shedding blaster bolts, redirecting them with precise skill, and his master rocking back to kick one particularly bold mando in the chest, pushing him away. “ – _depriving terrorists of their means to terrorize_.”

“ _Meg gar parjir o'r akaan, cuyir gar at hiibir_.” Fett grunts, sensing his doubt and reluctance. _What you win in battle, is yours to take_. It was a tenet of Mandalorian culture, and often poorly understood by outsiders. _Parjai_ , victory, was not so clearly cut a concept in mando’a as it was in basic. Victory demanded honor, and justice, not simply success. And to take what was _not_ won… There were exceptions. To steal to eat, or to preserve your life or the life of one under your charge, or to flee from what would be your death, or to take back what had been unrightfully taken from you, those could be forgiven. But outside of such circumstances… Mandalore tolerated no thieves.

“ _Ni susulur gar_.” Obi-Wan replies. _I hear you_. He hopes they don’t think he can’t be counted on to do his part, and he hadn’t intended to distract them in battle. Though from the looks of things…

~*~

They may still be fighting, but the battle is already decided. The Death Watch seems to have just figured that out too, Fett notes, diving into a roll to avoid a rocket and coming back up in a straight tackle against a mando pointing a blaster right at the _jetii’s_ back. Their coordination begins to falter, not that they worked particularly well to begin with, as they renew themselves with a frenzied, desperate vigor.

“ _Vor’e_ , Cody!” Naasade tosses his thanks chipperly, catching sight of him as he renders the man he’d tackled unconscious. Fett grunts, but doesn’t spare him much attention. There are still four holdouts on Death Watch’s side, clearly superior combatants to the rest.

Fett is no stranger to joy in battle, to ferocious grins and reckless delight and playful showmanship, but this _jetii_ is something different. He fell into this engagement like it was a pleasurable indulgence, with occasional flashes of a sharp, grim coldness that come from bitter experience. Ironcially, those flashes put Jango at ease. They show him that for all his apparent joviality, the _jetii’s_ senses are sharp, and he is paying attention.

Mostly. Naasade has slipped and called him something else. Only twice, but Jango had noticed. At first he thought it was _kote_ , glory, but the second half sounded wrong, the consonant too hard, the vowel too short and Naasade’s pronunciation in mando’a wasn’t that poor. It was a name.

Jango’s suspected from the beginning that Naasade had fought alongside a real Mandalorian before. He’d had to of, to have his grasp of the language and culture. Even if he was born a Mandalorian, he’d have gone to the temple as a child, and spent most of his life in the cloister of the _jetiise_. He wouldn’t have truly understood his heritage until he was older. He wonders who that Mandalorian was, and suspects that if Naasade is seeing them in Jango, that they are already dead.

In his experience, people were rarely mistaken for others when those others were still living. That kind of association, that kind of memory-sense, it came from a soul trying to reconnect with ghosts.

Jango fires his weapon, hailing blaster shots around one mando taking cover against a cargo pallet, waiting for them to gathers themselves and break cover, but keeping the pinned in the meantime, and there is something viscerally satisfying about watching Naasade, off to the side, disengage his lightsaber, launch himself forward off a hard step, and drive his fist into one of the _kyr’stad_ mando’s buckets. The mando certainly didn’t expect it, crumpling under the blow, and Jango reminds himself to get the stupid _jetii_ something better to protect his hands with than the gloves he’s sporting, Force or no Force.

Ah, the other one break cover, finally, coming up to flank his last standing compatriot. The _kyr’stad_ , Death Watch, mandos stand rigidly, their fallen troops scattered around the landing platform, either unconscious, wounded and disarmed, stun-cuffed to a tie-down bolt, or in the case of three unlucky and confused individuals, magnetically locked to a cargo trolley. Jango was rather impressed with the creativity of that last one.

“ _Jor'chaajir rohakar_.” Naasade calls, allowing them the chance to surrender. It can’t be seen outside his visor, but Jango shoots a short glare at the _jetii_ for the offer.

“ ‘ _kay ky’ram_!” One of them spits back. _Till death_. They will not surrender.

The _jetii_ sighs, and offers a dry look at Fett, tilting a hand in a ‘I’ve done my part’ gesture.

Between a laser sword and Fett’s twin blasters, they fall shortly, stunned and wounded.

“Who are you?” Someone shouts behind them, and they turn. One _kyr’stad_ mando is trying to pull himself up against a fuel pump, clutching his ribcage, one leg dragging, the knee dislocated. Naasade disengages his lightsaber, clipping it to his belt, and offers the mando a cool, steely look.

“ _Utrel'a gar haa'taylir, ad be Manda_.” Naasade says coldly, a drastically different an than just moment ago. Harsh and unforgiving. _Clear your sights, child of Mandalore_. “ _Ibic cuyir te jag tion'ad cuyir gar Mand’alor.”_

 _This is the man who is your King_.

Well, with an introduction like that…

Fett lifts off his bucket, tucking it under his arm, and glares down.

“Jango of Clan Fett, House Mereel.” He states. “The rightful ruler of Mandalore. And you.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Master Jinn.” Siri says flatly, in an eerily identical tone to that of her master’s, and then simply…stops, frowning at him. The tall jedi master frowns back down at her, and, after a minute of this, glances to his padawan for support. Sian rolls her eyes and looks to Siri.

“I tried.” She says with a shrug.

Siri sighs, eyeing the master’s slightly untidy, almost distracted appearance, and walks away, shaking her head. In the small antechamber of the Senate Building, full of red couches and pillared light panels, several jedi were waiting, most with a sense of confusion. Sitting by her newly claimed Master, Padawan Iara, a yellow-skinned zabrak woman from the older class of initiates, was nervously smoothing down the initiates whites she was wearing, still confused as to why she’d been asked to wear them today. Beside her, Master Yoda sat pensively, toes curled together. Madame Nu was also present, her padawan still in the Archives, and Master Yaddle, presiding over a small class of five young initiates who had been lucky enough to earn themselves a field trip to observe today’s proceedings in the Senate District. Siri smiled at Aayla, Quinlan’s little shadow, who was in the group, along with two humans, two mikkians, and a duros youngling. Aayla appeared to be the youngest in her clan, though her fellows weren’t that much older. The little twi’lek was in her initiates whites, as was proper, but had stubbornly affixed her leather arm bands and cross belts on over them. Siri thought it was cute.

Standing irritably by the door was Master Windu, who was present only on account of the fact that Mater Sifo-Dyas had pleaded _his_ way _out_ of attending, and so Master Adi has assigned Windu to stand in his place. He’d had very little choice in the matter, and very little forewarning as to what exactly his role here today was.

Siri wasn’t entirely certain if her master left certain parties uninformed for security purposes or because they annoyed her, and her master wouldn’t admit to it either way. Personally, she thought it wasn’t exactly _annoyance_ that passed between her master and Master Windu, but it was hardly her place to speculate.

Master Windu scowls at her as she passes him, and Siri dips her head in respect and then glides loftily past him, because that it what Master Adi does, and slips out the door.

She pulls her comm out of her pocket as she walks. “Alright master, all requested parties are present and mostly presentable.”

It takes a minute for her master to reply, undoubtably busy on her end as well. “Master Jinn?”

“Sian did her best.” Siri says. “I’m headed back to the Temple to spread word of the broadcast. Are you alright?”

“I’m well, padawan.” Master Adi replies, both warm and a little irritated at the repeated inquiry. Her master may look fighting fit once more, but the healers still had her on light duty. As her padawan, Siri was well within her rights to be concerned, so she ignores her master’s mood. “Everyone here is almost ready, and the political invites have been issued. Speculation is already rampant, and Sifo-Dyas keeps reminding me that he’s ready to publish. I think he’s nervous. See to him when you return, will you?”

“First thing.” Siri agrees readily. “I’m kind of excited.” She adds, feeling jittery and energetic, better than she has felt in weeks.

“Well, we’ll see what comes of it.” Master Adi says pragmatically, and Siri thinks maybe her master is nervous too. It was still…an adjustment, to understand that her master was not herself immune to folly and insecurity, even as a full Jedi Knight, but it was comforting too, to understand that such things therefor didn’t make Siri any less of a Jedi, that she didn’t have to hide them and deny their existence in shame. Just…control them. Master them. Accept that having them was not failure or weakness. As her master does.

Though it was easier in theory than in practice, especially after what happened on their last mission.

“Yes, master.” Siri says, spying her Exploricorps shuttle pilot waiting for her in the grand lobby and turning in their direction. “We will.”

~*~

Chancellor Elect Finis Vallorum had held no qualms about calling a press conference on behalf of the Jedi Order, though he was quietly perturbed at the necessity. When Qui-Gon Jinn had politely requested an audience with him in the weeks before he took over the chancellorship completely and forfeited any lingering vestiges of free time, he had only welcomed a visit from a friend.

When Knight Adi Gallia had arrived in his place…

She had been polite enough to bring wine. His choice favorite, in fact. What else she had brought him was troubling. Finis had a longstanding respect for the Jedi, having worked closely with many of them over his years as Coruscant’s Senator and as a diplomatic envoy on behalf of the Galactic Senate, and the implications that there was some insidious undertaking to undermine their Order within the heart of the republic… it had been unfathomable.

Knight Gallia, however, had been prepared for his doubts, and had calmly walked him through reports and statistics, explained the decline of the Order, not only in its numbers, but in its reach and in its faith as a result of more and more stringent regulations, subtle financial manipulations, and inaccurate intelligence support, all piling up over increased demands for a decreasing body.

In light of it all, her drastic seeming actions were in fact bitterly pragmatic, though most, he feared, would fail to see it that way.

No matter.

At the very least, his position as the next Chancellor of the Galactic Republic was already greaved in durasteel. Perhaps public opinion and political rivalry would rend them for what they were about to do. However, they would weather this storm together.

After all, was it not once undeniable, that there would be no Republic without the Jedi?

~*~

“Touch it and die, Vos.” Siri mutters, swatting his hand away from her unconventional padawan braid, which hung from a blue leather headband her master had made for her. Her hair was beginning to look more like hair than patchy fuzz now, but she still looked pitiful and disorderly, and the ugly braid did not help.

Which is part of the reason she was here, in the Temple, and not in the Senate Building with her master. Sometimes, presentation was everything, and right now, Siri didn’t make the cut. Her master had been grieved with the decision, but Siri had not been. She hardly wanted to be seen like this in person, let alone on the public holonet.

“Oh play nice, Siri.” Quinlan teased, barely a glimmer of yellow in his brown eyes. “I’m just touched you’re wearing it.”

“Touched in the head.” Siri hisses, swatting his hand again, earning one of his flashing grins that are a tad too sharp to be entirely friendly. “I _don’t_ play nice.”

“You two are impossible.” Bant grumbles.

“Ah – why _thank you_ , Bantling.” Quinlan expresses, sharply cheery, leaning away from Siri and into the mon calamari’s space, making her nearest eye swivel down to watch him suspiciously. “I do try.”

The three of them were one of many such cloistered groups on Jedi in the Dining Halls, waiting in anticipation of what they were informed would be a very pertinent public broadcast, though the details were vague. Sitting at the end of the padawans’ table, his brow resting in his hands and his datapad set precisely on the tables edge in front of him, was Councilor and Treasury Master Sifo-Dyas, having been coaxed out of his office and into the public space by Siri’s efforts.

Siri’s comm beeps once, taking her attention immediately off her friends stare down, Bant attempting to be disapproving against Quinlan’s playful, outrageous lash-fluttering. The mon calamari’s gills flush a little, and Siri can tell she won’t be able to maintain her air of reserve for very long. Quinlan had that effect, whether those around him wished him to or not. He liked to needle people that way.

“Master Sifo-Dyas.” Siri calls the master’s attention softly. He doesn’t stir. “Master Sifo-Dyas?”

Deep, even breathing, and either he’s communing with the Force or he failed to sleep last night out of stress and just soothed himself into a nap out of sheer hysteria. Frowning, Siri slaps her hand on the table. “Master Sifo-Dyas!”

He starts, one hand immediately clutching his datapad, the other coming flat down on the table and making him wince. The seers gaze takes a moment to focus, and all three padawans eye him in concern.

But the hazy look clears. He takes a deep breath, and offers a small, quiet smile. Not quite a pleased look, but not a false one either. It’s similar to a sort of reckless relief, where, on the edge of a pinnacle, you realize there is nothing more to be done, except to do. You are prepared or you are not, but you must move forward anyways. He nods at Siri, takes up his datapad, and publishes the documents he, Master’s Yaddle and Rancisis, and Master Adi have spent the last several days drafting; various letters, transactions and orders.

Two minutes later, the broadcast begins.

~*~

The press conference was picked up by more than two thousand stations, and rapidly repeated by hundreds more, quickly translated through system processes, cropped and edited by regional stations for brief interludes within local news. The Jedi Order rarely entertained publicity, and as such those rare occasions gained quick sensationality.

The image is certainly striking – not overtly so, but in the way that Jedi are always striking – reserved, dignified, and somewhat careworn, giving them an endearing quality despite their infamous aloof mannerisms.

Knight Gallia stands resolutely at a simple, elegant glass podium, the violet traces in her skin and eyes made vivid and captivating by her neatly pressed and well-tailored bronze and grey robes. Behind her, in a patient line up on the stage, waiting to be addressed if they are needed to, are an expertly chosen selection of representatives.

In the center is Master Mace Windu, young and stern and popular for his decisive involvement in the recent Stark Hyperspace Conflict. To his right, the towering and infamous Master Qui-Gon Jinn, a negotiator of great public regard, in spite of his more maverick behaviors, or because of them. On Jinn’s right, his padawan, a devaronian girl with a confident presence and a memorable appearance.

On Master Windu’s left, the venerable Master Yoda, whom the galaxy has been familiar with for generations, small and green and wizened, with a kindly look on his old face. And on Master Yoda’s left, his new padawan, one of the advanced initiates, a grown zabrak woman in pressed whites with a nervous but determined look on her face.

Some cameras display the audience, guests and visitors invited as witnesses outside of the press corps. Glimpses can be seen of the sage Master Yaddle, accompanied by a small retinue of bright faced younglings trying their best to imitate the calm resolution of their older Jedi counterparts, and not quite succeeding. Also in attendance was Madame Jocasta Nu, the Head Archivist, who had less of a public reputation, but a vast one in academic circles.

“ _Greetings, I am Jedi Knight Adi Gallia, acting in my capacity as the Jedi Ambassador to the Galactic Senate of the Republic, and addressing this broadcast under the authority of my rank within the Jedi Order_.”

Attention is drawn back to the center, cameras focusing in, the distraction of the wider display narrowed out of frame as she begins, and the galaxy watches.

“ _For the awareness of the public at large, as of ten-hundred-fifty-nine this morning, on this date, Galactic Standard Time, the Jedi High Council, representing and on behalf of the Jedi Order as a whole, did publish and instate the following_ ;”

~*~

“ _Archive Document Herf-Cresh-Resh-four-point-fifty-two-point-Peth-Zerek-point-one-point-Osk-Besh-Krill-point-Peth-zero-two_ _; Hereafter to be referred to as the Kenobi Report_.”

“Oh, they _didn’t_.” Obi-Wan grumbles, laying a hand over his face and peering through his fingers as Fish projects the broadcast, having wailed until they all stopped what they were doing and paid attention. The two Jedi in attendance hadn’t yet checked the alert notices on their commlinks. “ _Master_!” Obi-Wan complains.

“You were the author, padawan mine.” Master Ben remarks, unhelpfully, as he reaches over and tugs on Obi-Wan’s padawan braid. “And to be fair, Archive Document Herf-Cresh-Resh-four-point-fifty-two-point-Peth-Zerek-point-one-point-Osk-Besh-Krill-point-Peth-zero-two is a lot to ask someone to remember, let alone repeat.”

“You don’t say.” Fett scoffs, scrolling through a datapad and leaning against the wall, rather than join them at their makeshift table. After securing their defeated crop of _kyr’stad_ mandos, Fett had gone and downloaded the nav-recorder data of all six of their new ships and was perusing and mapping key points of interest therein. They didn’t have long before they needed to vacate this moon, or else risk discovery by more of the Death Watch, but Tam Saxon, being Mandalorian himself and _Kyr’stad_ true believer, was proving immensely uncooperative.

It didn’t help that Fett had lost his temper and knocked the man unconscious.

But the jedi weren’t going to bring that up. Again.

~*~

“Sit still, Ani.” Shmi murmurs, carding her fingers through the boy’s hair.

“Wasn’t me, amu.” Anakin clicks his tongue, and then elbows Jax, who _was_ the culprit. They are both too big to fit on her lap, but it does not stop them from trying. Shaak Ti lays a supportive hand against Shmi’s shoulder and offers the little mother, as the locals have taken to calling Shmi, a conciliatory look. Shmi sighs at her marrat and transfers whichever boy into the togruta’s lap. Anakin gives her a betrayed look, but leans into the cradle of Master Ti’s arm and collarbone quite readily regardless.

“ _Directive Order Cresh-Resh-Senth-seven-hundred-eighty-one-point-Peth-Thesh-point-Osk-Orenth-Herf-Cresh; Hereafter to be referred to as the Advanced Initiates Program, or the Skywalker Initiative_.”

Coorah and Asaia both turn to look at her, humming inquisitively in the way togruta have a habit of doing, and Shmi resolutely ignores them both, staring dispassionately at the screen. Her hands clench tightly to her dress around her knees, and Jax lays his own, younger, smaller, softer hands over hers in a gesture of comfort. But Shmi is not upset. Not as he thinks she is.

The Skywalker Initiative.

They had given it _her_ name. A slaves name. To something valuable and important and worthy.

And they had done it for all the galaxy to see.

~*~

“ _Archive Document Osk-Jenth-Thesh-point-forty-four-seventeen-point-eight-point-three-hundred-nineteen-point-Resh-Trill-Isk-Resh-two-point-eleven-point-six-point-zero-two_.”

“You have to admire a woman who can recite documentation like she’s issuing an order.” Sha’me Beroya, Satine Kryze’s dancing tutor, murmured smoothly, the green skinned Mandalorian twi’lek lounging back in the breakfast nook of Satine’s diplomatic quarters, sipping a caf so bitter just the smell of it made Satine’s tongue curl.

“ _Archive Document Osk-Jenth-Thesh-point-forty-four-seventeen-point-eight-point-three-hundred-twenty-point-Resh-Trill-Isk-Resh-two-point-eleven-point-six-point-zero-two_.”

“You have to admire a woman who can captivate you while she’s reciting documentation.” Satine rebuts, taking in the details of the scene the Jedi diplomat had set, taking in the refined composure she held, and the utterly implacability of her expression, which Satine subconsciously tries to imitate.

“ _Archive Document Osk-Jenth-Thesh-point-forty-four-seventeen-point-eight-point-three-hundred-twenty-one-point-Resh-Trill-Isk-Resh-two-point-eleven-point-six-point-zero-two-point_ - _Osk-Orenth-Herf-Cresh.”_

“Admire a woman who can do both at the same time.” Sha’me compromises, eyeing the heiress of Clan Kryze. “Respect is valuable. Respect and intimidation more so. All the will in the world is wasted without the strength or power to match it. To make your argument from a position of weakness is to make a weak argument.”

Satine opens her mouth to protest, and Sha’me twitches a lekku warningly at her, and points a pinky finger towards the holo display. “That woman there could present her case bound, beaten, and on her knees and not be weak. Dignity is not a gown you can wear or others can tarnish, command is not a volume, and strength is more than a body. These are not things you hold, _ad’ika_ , they are what you _are_. They cannot be given to you, and if they are _real_ , they cannot be taken. ”

Satine bites her tongue, chewing over those thoughts. She has learned by now that Sha’me’s lectures are meant more often to invoke thought than invite argument, and this is one such as those.

_~*~_

_“Order of Resolution nine-zero-one-six-point-Herf-Cresh-Jenth-Osk-point-Osk-Jenth-Thesh-point-Zerek-zero-zero-one.”_

“Now that _is_ breath control.” Master Vumoyo remarks softly, sitting side by side with his padawan in a cantina booth on Onderon. “Take notes, padawan.”

Luminara briefly looks to her master, eyes crinkled at the edges, resisting the urge to prod at the new diamond tattoos on her chin. She was taught discipline from the cradle. She _can_ endure a little itching. “You say that as if Knight Gallia possesses a skill that can be learned, Master. She doesn’t even _write down_ her speeches.”

_“Directive Order Herf-Cresh-Jenth-Osk-fourteen-hundred-and-sixty-point-Peth-Osk-point-Jenth-Osk-point-Esk-Xesh-Crech-point-Aurek-Crech-point-Mern-Crech-point-Esk-Dorn-Crech-point-zero-one-point-zero-seventy-eight.”_

“Yes she does.” Master Vumoyo says. “She must.”

“She doesn’t.” Luminara repeats, amusement coloring her tone. Her master looks back to the holonet broadcast above the bar, his eyes reflecting the illumination.

“Oh.” He remarks, pausing. “It’s still impressive.”

“Certainly, Master.” Luminara agrees.

_~*~_

“ _The first two documents detail an internal concern and resolution of the Jedi Order. The following three refer to how the former effects our relationship with the Galactic Republic. The final two documents form our resolution to the issue this presents. All are presently available for public review_.”

The broadcast was airing in a public square on Serrano. He had distanced himself from Jedi matters for some time now, secluded away in his familial residence on his homeworld, attempting a deep self-reflection and an attempt to reconcile his efforts with his failures. A man of his stature and age should not be so easily troubled by the impassioned patter of one brash padawan, and yet…

He searched himself, and tried to deny that he found himself wanting. So he sought elsewhere.

But the broadcast captures his attention, both a jarring reminder of his real life, and not this façade he is wearing, and that the world can and does go on without him.

“ _To clarify in summary; it has come to our attention, as detailed in the Kenobi Report, that the Jedi Order as a whole is suffering a grand decline, both in numbers and our purpose by faith. To rectify this decline and preserve our Order, the Skywalker Initiative was instituted to bolster our Order by allowing those who would have previously been considered too old for apprenticeship for advancement towards knighthood the chance to continue their study and attain the rank of Jedi Knights and Masters. It further allows for a proven Jedi Master and teacher to accept more than one student into their tutelage, as the limited availability of training masters exacerbated the loss of future Jedi_.”

Jedi Master Yan Dooku stares transfixed, held rigid by the image towering above the square. He holds high esteem for the young Knight Gallia, but he is captured more by the man behind her.

Qui-Gon Jinn, his padawan. Looking as dignified as he can ever manage to be, but also…. Happier, than Dooku has seen him in quite some time. They did not have an especially amicable relationship, he and his padawan, but he did care for the man he raised. And beside him was… a grandpadawan, as bold and settled into her role as they come. He’s never even spoken to her, he realizes, this child of his lineage. He’s barely spoken to Qui-Gon in years.

Yet he misses them. Or the idea of them, as frivolous a thought as that is.

 _They weren’t taken from you._ His mind pushes the memory up, though it twists the boy’s words. _You gave up on them._

 _You’re the master._ Kenobi had accused him.

“It’s my responsibility.” Dooku breathes out, a wearied sigh. The local reporter has taken over the screen again, commenting on the footage, which is hours old. Dooku will return to his dwelling, and replay the broadcast at his leisure. He’ll pay more attention to Knight Gallia’s declarations.

And then.

He’ll seek out his future too.

And hope he is not too late.

After all, the world can and does go on without him.

~*~

“ _To this end, we have been made aware that the sudden change in our population has likewise increased our resource needs, some of which have historically been provided by the Republic in return for our services. We were issued notice that this uptake presented an undue burden, and received a cease and desist from the Treasury to avoid economic despair_.”

Murmurs breaks out across the Dining Halls, quickly quieted, but their echoes linger in the Force as Jedi turned to each other, uneasy with the implications of such an action. But on the screens, Adi Gallia remains unfased, and her strength lends to theirs. They trust that whatever came of this, they are guarded by ones who will not falter in their duty, nor in their care.

“ _It is not the aim nor place of a Jedi to profit from our service. We are not called by an occupation but by true purpose, and it goes against that purpose to in and of ourselves create a burden upon those we seek to help.”_

Her violet stare is not lessened in it’s gravity for the veil of camera between them and her, and the Jedi around Siri and her friends bolster at the Knights affirmation, a sensation of rising in the Force, like being upheld in a warm lake, buoyed above the shadows beneath. 

_“As such, the Jedi Order has repaid all current debt to the Treasury of the Galactic Republic for this fiscal year, and issued a resolution to provide for our own funding from this day forward. We do not anticipate that this will hinder our ability to provide further services to all beings of the galaxy, but wish to convey forthright that our situation has changed and as such operations of the Order may in turn change to reflect our current necessities.”_

Knight Gallia finally makes a visible pause, breathing in slow and deep _,_ and her gaze scans thought them _._

 _“I will now take questions_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: writing this monster, though. This chapter was a task and a half.


	13. Chapter 13

“Gentlemen! _Gentlemen_! We meet again!”

“Oh, for the love of-“ Ben shoots Fett a sour glare, and the _Mand’alor_ returns his affront with an innocent look most people would not think him capable of.

Hondo Ohnaka sashays his way across the landing platform, eyeing the illicit fuel station, the clear scorching of blaster marks across the duracrete pavement, and the six very fine ships.

“Very nice.” He murmurs. “Yes, very nice. Jango! My old friend, how good it is to see you. And the Jedi, of course.” He sweeps out an arm, and bows with a flourish, before popping back up like a manic childs toy.

“Hondo.” Fett nods. “I’ve got two of those very nice ships for you if you’ll stash the other two for me.”

“Ah ah, your math is not quite accurate, my friend, for in addition to your transport I spy _six_ -“

“One of them is his.” Fett jerks a thumb at Obi-Wan, who has been watching the pirate with a vague look of suspicion on his face, no doubt trying to determine why Hondo Ohnaka seems irritatingly familiar. “And the other may come in handy for this job.”

“Oh.” Hondo’s cheer falls with disappointment, large and exaggerated, though for a single flash, there is a hard critical look in his eyes as he sizes up Obi-Wan, before recognition kicks in. “Oh ho, it’s the little jedi! Not so sick this time, eh? And much bigger. Turning into a fine strapping lad, yes? Good. Good.”

“Thank you?” Obi-Wan tries, his ears turning a little red. Hondo beams at him.

“Of course. Now. _Business_. What do you say about the rest of this ah….lovely little fuel station?” Hondo inquires, his men already combing over crates and tugging on locked depot doors.

“We’ve already fueled our ships.” Fett says. “You’re welcome to the rest, but I wouldn’t stick around long, Ohnaka. This belong to the Death Watch, and there’s no telling when more of them will come.”

“Always with the danger, with you.” The weequay clucks, brushing non-existent dust off his embroidered coat. “We will be fine. We are pirates! I’ve done this hundreds of times. Hondo Ohnaka always come through!”

“Apparently so.” Ben replies easily, eyeing the pirate up and down. “We thank you for your assistance.”

“Think nothing of it! Hondo Ohnaka is always willing to help his friends.” He cheers. “Especially when there is profit to be had!”

Ben’s nods, smiling. The smile may or may not be a little pinched.

~*~

“Well he was certainly… interesting.” Obi-Wan says, climbing back up the access hatch after having docked his new kom’rk class transport to Fett’s current vessel, the two mandalorain cruisers one either side n doubt making an odd picture to any observers as they hurtled through space. “Are you certain he’ll give you your other two ships back?”

“He will.” Fett says, completely doubtless. Fish beeps rudely, less doubtless, and nearly runs over their toes as he wheels towards the cockpit.

“Do we have a heading then?” Master Ben inquires, lurching to avoid having shin bruises from the droid.

Most of their prisoners they had also left in Hondo’s care, with strict instruction to drop them off on some out of the way spaceport somewhere, though Tam Saxon they still had locked up in a cargo container in the hold.

Fett grimaces, giving the Jedi Master a dark look.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Master Ben sighs, scratching at his beard. “It was a slim chance that we would find it in the navcoms to begin with. We need Tam Saxon to _tell_ us where the training ground is.”

Fett grumbles low in his throat, because they’ve _tried_ that.

Obi-Wan frowns between the two of them and then slips away to the cockpit. Fish is at the controls, and bloops at him, acknowledging his existence, which is slightly nicer than how he treats Fett and Master Ben.

“Hello Fish.” Obi-Wan says. He watches the droid for a moment, as Fish takes the into hyperspace, blue light swirling by. Obi-Wan breathes in deep, looking up from Fish and staring out at nothing and everything, feeling the glimmer of passing stars and clusters, the flashes of music that were living planets, the hints of warning and dread that were black holes and catastrophes.

“Do you have the star maps Fett downloaded?” Obi-Wan asks the droid.

Fish dings an affirmative.

“Can you project them, please?” Obi-Wan asks. Fish’s dome spins around, twitches, stops, turns, stops, lens shield narrowing, opening. The projection appears in a bright flash, making his eyes sting.

“Thanks, Fish.” Obi-Wan says, a little less politely. The droid ticks, a low monotone snicker.

Scattered stars and planet fill the room, the galaxy wheels by outside. It’s not unlike being back at the temple, hiding away in the planetarium, traffic whizzing around outside the tower.

Obi-Wan kneels on the durasteel plating, ignoring the chill that seeps into his knees, and the uneven grooves that makes doing so particularly uncomfortable.

He breathes in deep, letting his eyes roam the star charts, and lets himself drift into the Force.

~*~

“What the hell is he doing?” Fett asks, striding towards the open door to the cockpit, where they can see Obi-Wan knelt down on the floor, the room awash with a blue glow. Ben lifts a hand to Fett’s shoulder, holding him up.

“Meditating. Let him be.” Ben says, glancing at his padawan, who was a bright focus in the Force. Obi-Wan was searching for something, and Ben feels foolish when he figures out what it must be. Meditative guiding was not unheard of, but it was hardly a precise method, and not always reliable. With the accuracy, speed, and consistency of navicoms, the practice was rarely utilized. And it could be used against you. Traps where laid that way for Jedi in the past, drawing them towards their own demise, with no one the wiser. There was no data trail to follow, after all, no trajectory to interpret. Just instinct.

Obi-Wan might succeed, and he might not. Either way, Ben saw no harm in letting him try.

Fett makes a low, irritated noise in his throat and turns on heel, treading towards the galley, and Ben follows. Fett pulls rations out of the cabinets, and Ben obligingly starts working on a pot of caf.

“Is he battle shy?” Fett asks, after a few minutes of quiet, seam and the smell of spices rising as he added the dry packs to water.

“Obi-Wan?” Ben iterates quietly, though it isn’t really a question. Fett could hardly be speaking of anyone else.

“I don’t doubt his courage.” Fett says sharply, to make himself clear. Ben could almost smile for that defensive clip in his tone, a disguise for the fact that Fett actually did seem to, in spite of himself, like the padawan. And perhaps his master too. “But for an _adiik_ whose _baji’buir_ falls into battle like it’s a gift…he certainly doesn’t follow in your way. He hesitates to take up his weapon, even in self-defense.”

“That has less to do with him, and more, I’m afraid, to do with the weapon. And what it represents.” Ben replies, sighing.

“He’s still scarred from what happened to the last lightsaber he wielded.” Fett states, speaking of those marks visible _and_ unseen.

“That’s part of it.” Ben agrees. “But not all of it. Obi-Wan… knows, better than I think we could give him credit for, where my way, as you call it, will lead him.” Ben gestures to himself, with a bitter sense of recrimination, and a dry sense of resignation. “I’ve told him what he’ll face, and he has seen in me what it could turn him into. How it could break him. So he has a decision to make.”

“And he hasn’t made it yet.” Fett states flatly, rubbing at the back of his neck and watching noodles expand in rich red sauce.

“He’s not quite fifteen.” Ben remarks. “I hadn’t planned to tell him… quite so soon. That it causes him doubt means he’s in full possession of his senses.”

“Tell him what, exactly?” Fett demands. “You _jetiise_ and your damn crypticality. What do you know that’s worse than what everyone else in this fucking galaxy knows?”

Ben looks to Fett, who is glowering at him. The galley smells of caf and spices, and steam curls in the air. Jango Fett, in armor that promises vengeance, his gloves and bucket resting on the counter. The man who, in another life, had consigned millions to die just to get his revenge for the destruction of his people. He is still that man, just with a different target. Jango Fett, whose face was the face of a friend, and a traitor, and who knew nothing of it. The _Mand’alor_ of Mandalore, who had, historically, _not_ sided with the Jedi in the wars against the Sith.

In many instances, the opposite, in fact.

Ben stands there, considering, and Fett’s eyes flash with understanding, sharp and clear – he knows that Ben is standing there wondering if he can trust him.

“Don’t.” Fett says, with a sharp shake of his head. Ben lifts a brow, lips parting. “Don’t tell me.”

This, Ben recognizes too – Fett’s a smart man. Smart enough to know he can’t always trust himself.

It’s something they have in common.

“Just…” Fett grits his teeth, growling, and occupies himself with making sure the noodles don’t burn, and Ben attends to the pot of caf, and fetching mugs. “What about his weapon?” Fett backtracks. “Bothers him?”

“Not every lightsaber is built the same.” Ben says, filling the mugs and passing one to Fett, noting that they were actual ceramic and not travel-hardy thermaplate. “Contrary to popular belief, they cannot cut through _everything_. Practice sabers can’t even cut through flesh and training sabers – the distinction is minor but important – _can_ sear flesh, and score duracrete, but aren’t so powerful as to cut through durasteel. A padawans saber can carve durasteel, but wouldn’t do so well against a plate of – oh, let’s say beskar iron. Traditionally speaking.”

“I’m guessing Obi-Wan’s saber isn’t tradional.” Fett mutters.

“Ah…no.” Ben admits, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Like myself - and _exceedingly_ few others - Obi-Wan possesses a saber that, in fact, _can_ cut through anything. It’s a highly powerful weapon, and as a Jedi, we can _feel_ that power in a way others cannot. He _knows_ what that blade is capable of, to the marrow. And it unnerves him. Because what that blade is capable of, so is he.”

Fett is quiet, considering that for a minute. Eventually, he just huffs, a man well aware of what he can handle and what he can't, and one who finds jedi mysticism irritating.

"We'll have to work on that."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Make sure to check out the notes at the end!!!!!

Siri feels sickly, standing before the High Council, even at her master’s side, and wishes she had Sian’s easy confidence. Still, she can pretend, and lifts her chin, keeping her gaze up, though she’s a little nervous meeting the master’s gazes. She tends to look over their shoulders instead.

It’s easier with senators and politicians. She doesn’t particularly like most senators an politicians, and has no compunction in staring them down. But the High Council…

Master Rancisis shifts his coils, and offers her a gentle smile through his voluminous silver hair. Siri smiles quickly back.

Escaping the Senate Building had been an arduous affair. At first, the press corps had been caught completely off-guard, but that had only lasted a moment. Some of the questions Siri hadn’t understood, too technical in their framing, but others had been strange in their criticism.

‘ _Does this mean the Order will be leaving Coruscant?’_

_‘Without financial influence, who will maintain oversight of the Jedi?’_

_‘How was this decline not noticed before?’_

_‘Why make such a public statement over this state of affairs?’_

_‘_ Was _the Jedi Order using their new policies to generate profit?’_

_‘Did the Order expect to be paid from the worlds they provided services for?’_

_‘How would the Order provide for its own funding?’_

_‘Does the Senate not have a right to oversee the operation of the Jedi Order?’_

_‘Did this political move suggest that the Order was moving away from the Galactic Senate?_ ’

Her master had never even gotten flustered, or seemed caught off guard. She had answered calmly and straightforwardly, disseminating details to those question she felt needed more depth and shutting down those reporters who attempted to twist her statements awry. Siri had been awed.

The questioning hadn’t ended with the press conference either. Trying to get out of the building had meant wading through the crowds of people who gathered outside the press conference, having lacked an invitations – more reporters, and senators, and who knows who else, all impressed with their own importance and demanding considerations.

Clips of her master had been broadcast from hundreds of sources, along with the other Jedi in attendance. Master Yoda had taken it in stride, probably because his answers always bordered on philosophical to the point of being nonsensical. His Padawan had gushed, nervous but eager, about her new opportunity and what it meant to her, which had been endearing. Master Windu had been a bit short tempered in his manner, but essentially answered questions in the same vein as Master Adi. Master Jinn had been aloof and cryptic, most of his phrases voiling down to ‘the will of the Force’, probably because he had no idea what was going on. Sian hadn’t been nearly so vague, rapid-fire explaining her opinions with a steady positive energy about her hopes and appreciation for the future of the Jedi Order, as a traditional padawan. Several reporters had tried to convince her to say something detrimental about those who came in at advanced age, as if they were competition for the title of Jedi.

One reporter had made that exact statement, to which Sian had replied, iridescent eyes flashing ‘ _That isn’t how being a Jedi works_.’

Even the younglings had been questioned, though Master Yoda had always been right by their side as chaperone. They didn’t understand hardly anything of what had been going on, but they had been adorable. All they knew for certain was that there was going to be more Jedi, and in their eyes, that was only good. They were going to be Jedi too.

Madame Nu’s coverage had been more…scholastic in nature, and in the end some reporters regretted questioning the Head Archivist, as she held no reservations with elucidating upon the issue for up to an hour on the grace of a single inquiry.

Many, many inquiries had been made as to why Obi-Wan Kenobi and Shmi Skywalker were not present, once their full names had been pulled from the released documents, and no one was quite satisfied with the answer of ‘ _Padawan Kenobi is in the field and Padawan Skywalker is away for training’_ though they could not exactly argue with such things.

Personally, Siri thought it was better that they were away. Siri respected Padawan Skywalker very much, though she didn’t know the woman as well as Obi-Wan and Quinlan did, but while Shmi spoke well – very well, for a woman with her background – she could be blunt, and often struggled to be…politic. Not to mention that she still retreated into herself, sometimes, depending on whose presence she was standing in. Master Ti had brought her padawan to the Senate on several occasions, working on her political graces, and they had worked with Master Adi a few times.

And as for Obi-Wan… well, he was _Obi-Wan_. He didn’t _mean_ to cause trouble, but he certainly had a way of attracting its attention.

Siri has a feeling that if he had been there, Master Adi would have been stuck in the Senate Building for _years_ trying to extract him. And Siri isn’t sure she wants to know what it would have been like to have Master Naasade there. The man was enigmatic at best, and while undoubtedly an excellent teacher and an experienced Jedi, he was also just… weird, at times. And he _did_ mean to cause trouble. He did it _all the time_.

So it was best they were busy.

“I imagine you are here to address our fallout from yesterday’s public event?” Master Poof inquires, long fingers laid against the edge of his long throat, which Siri thinks is a tell that the quermian is stressed.

“Not so, Masters.” Master Adi replies calmly. Master Yoda’s ears perk up, and Master Windu sighs to himself.

“Proceed, if you will?” Master Yaddle prompts.

Master Adi tips her head to the venerable master. “Our actions of yesterday have granted us a freedom to act upon our own discretion the Jedi have not had in centuries. As such, there are two issues upon which I would like to address this council.”

Master Adi never wastes her time, or her words.

“To the first, our ties to the Galactic Senate have largely inhibited our ability to act beyond their reach. There are thousands of systems unrepresented by that body who once could have counted quite reliably on our assistance and who haven’t seen a representative of the Jedi is nearly a millenia. I would like to change that. We were not meant to serve a government, no matter how expansive, but a galaxy. We have, among other things, long suffered a decline in our _neutrality_ , which garnered us trust from even warring systems.” Master Adi says.

“And yet by your own admission we are spread too thin already, Knight Gallia.” Master Tiin replies, looking troubled. “At this time, would not such efforts seem counterproductive?”

Siri watches her master take a slow breath, staring flatly at the councilor. Siri resists the urge to shift uneasily.

“A Jedi does not abandon their duty because it is _difficult_.” Master Adi declares sharply, as the tension in the room rises. Siri tightens her grip on her wrist, where she is holding her hands behind her back.

Master Tiin seems taken aback.

“No.” Master Koon says, before either Master Tiin or Master Adi can speak again. “They do not. _We_ do not. Proceed, Knight Gallia.” He prompts her. “A second issue, you wished to address to this council.”

Master Adi nods, unperturbed.

“On the very same account as Master Tiin was so concerned – I would like to address changes I am invoking in mission roster assignments.”

Her statement left no question as to their allowance to deliberate on the matter.

“Effective immediately, no assignment shall be accepted by any party containing less than one Jedi Master and one fully trained Knight.” Master Adi declares. “In the midst of the investigations Master Rancisis and I have been conducting within the senate, a dark trend in recent mission failures and fatalities was discovered. In spite of all safeguards, it appears that our intelligence network through the Galactic Senate has been compromised, and our intelligence beyond the Republic is thin at best. As such, in the interest of preserving the lives of those Jedi already within our ranks, I want no Jedi taking field assignments in a solitary capacity, and no Master-Padawan pairs left alone on any but the most routine of assignments, for which our intelligence we know is secured and can be trusted.”

The council is silent, and Siri bites the inside of her cheek. Strictly speaking, Master Adi has the authority to make that determination. It was the role she was assigned by his very council.

Strictly speaking, that didn’t mean they couldn’t take it away from her.

“Grieved by what you have found, you are.” Master Yoda says quietly, gravely. Siri blinks, and Master Adi sets her jaw.

“I should have noticed.” Knight Gallia states somberly.

“We _all_ should have noticed.” Master Windu corrects gently.

“Deliberate, this council will.” Mater Yoda nods, eyes wide open. “But agree with you on these matters, Knight Gallia, _I_ do. Rising, something sinister is. Prepare for it, we must. Guard ourselves against it, we must.”

“Masters.” Master Aid bows, and Siri follows suit as they are quietly dismissed.

She lets out a rushing breath when the council is once more closed behind them, and Siri is safely on the other side. She looks up. “Master, what did Master Yoda mean? What do we need to prepare for?”

Master Adi looks down at her, looking almost caught off guard by her padawan’s inquiry, violet eyes wide.

“Master?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR: Alright dear readers, rare opportunity coming up. My next planned story in this series, after _Lineage_ , is set to take place when Obi-Wan is sixteen.
> 
> **So.**
> 
> Tell me what kind of story or interactions or themes you want more of and i'll see what i can do in making a fic or two to take place between _Lineage_ and my next piece.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re certain about this?” Fett asks skeptically, scowling at the star system Obi-Wan has isolated from the nav data.

The padawan shrugs. “As much as I can be, I suppose.”

“You didn’t just pick one at random?” Fett questions. “Because it looked like you just picked one at random.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan deadpans. “That is exactly what I did. That’s how the Force works.”

“If you’re being told to choose one, it’s not _random_.” Fett snaps.

“I wasn’t _told_ anything.” Obi-Wan snaps back. “It’s just a _feeling_.”

Fett growls impatiently, crossing his arms, and Obi-Wan glares short-temperedly at him, probably because Fett has decided an interrogation was necessary _before_ Obi-Wan had a chance to eat dinner, and the _Mand’alor_ was standing between the teenager and the galley.

“There is a way to find out.” Ben interjects, carefully plucking the data disk from between them and turning towards the aft hold.

“You’re going to ask Tam Saxon if we picked the right star system?” Fett scoffs.

“Not quite.” Ben says, offering a sly smile. Fett narrows his eyes, glancing between an equally puzzled padawan and the enigmatic master. Muttering under his breath, he strides after Ben, leaving Obi-Wan free to raid the leftover rations.

Ben lopes easily to the back of the ship, emulating his padawan in jumping down to the lower hold rather than use the ladder, which only gives Fett more reason to curse the _jetiise_ in his company. He does wait for Fett to catch up before turning the lock on the container and throwing open the door.

“I’d like to thank you, Tam Saxon, for your cooperation.” The Jedi Master declares with an easy smile, one hand mildly upturned to stop the mando’s attempt to charge them as the door opens, pushing him back with the Force, his armored boots scraping the floor of the durasteel container.

“I haven’t cooperated.” Saxon snarls, a very fair man with pale blonde hair and an angular face. Fett had allowed him his armor, but stripped him down to his body-suit and basic _beskar’gam_ , removing all additions and weapons systems.

The Jedi’s smile grows into a smirk, and he lifts careless hand to touch his temple briefly. “Oh, you may not have realized it, but you have.” He says, his tone so light and friendly as he says something that would put a chill down most sentients spine, and waken all old fears one had of Jedi and their ilk. Ben turns over the data chip and reads off the star designation Obi-Wan had selected.

Tam Saxon’s face gives nothing away – he’s too disciplined for that – but even the best of Mandalore cannot stop their heart from pulsing irregularly, or stop themselves from feeling the _anger-shame-fear_ that comes from having betrayed yourself.

“Ah.” Ben remarks. “So we did guess the correct system. Lovely.”

Tam Saxon’s eyes widen, fists clenching at the sudden realization. “You _guessed_?”

“And you confirmed it.” Ben smirks. “As I said, thank you for that.”

“ _Oristir an_ _jetii sha’buir bal gar_ – “ He snarls at them, at Ben, and then at Fett “ – _gar dar’manda hu’tu_ -“

The insult dies when all humor drops from Ben’s face, and the Jedi flicks a hand, and Tam Saxon slams into the back of the container with a clang and a grunting gasp of expelled air.

“ _Dar’manda_?” Ben repeats, stepping up into the container, as Tam Saxon realizes that though he cannot see the grip pinning him down, he can’t get up either. “ _You_ dare call _him_ _dar’manda_? He _is_ the _Mand’alor_ , and you, who wear colors you don't deserve and call yourself _kyr'stad_ , as if death is some noble cause, _you_ are _aruetii_. You are _dar'manda_. This man was _chosen_ to be your king. You have no right to wear the _beskar'gam_ , to call yourself mandalorian, without him. Education and armor, self-defense and language. Our clans, and our Leader. That is the _Resol'nare_ , that is what makes Mandalore."

Ben shrugs off the weight on his arm, glaring coldly down at Tam Saxon, whose face is pale, waiting for the man to deny it-

"Master!" Obi-Wan shouts, and Ben realises the weight on his arm is Fett's hand around his elbow, not pulling, but holding, a warning. Ben glances back at Obi-Wan, who looks confused and worried as he stands at the railing, and then back at Saxon, who looks terrified. Ben releases him and steps back, calming himself and deliberately turning away from the Death Watch mando. He's angry. He's very angry, he recognizes. 

He takes a deep breath, and steps away from Fett and Saxon, both of whom are also very angry. They feed into each other, and Jedi are susceptible to that.

The root of his anger isn't about Fett, or Saxon. It's about Death Watch, and their betrayal of a chosen leader of Mandalore whom he cared for far more deeply. Whom he loved. He needs to clear his head. Leave the past in the future that never was.

He probably needs to have a session with his holocron. His discipline regarding his therapy has been sporadic on this mission, and Healer Kala would not approve.

Ben can hear Fett slam the door on the container closed again, Saxon not having dared rise from the floor.

"Master." Obi-Wan calls down, and Ben looks up. His padawan is watching him carefully, fingers curled around the railing, light shimmering off his shirt of black Concord silk. " Meditate with me." Obi-Wan says softly, but Ben knows it is neither a suggestion nor a question.

Internally, Ben winces.

~*~

Obi-Wan can feel the warmth of the spices flood to the back of his pallet, up his sinuses, and sting at his eyes. He has no idea when he actually started enjoying that sensation. Probably as a survival mechanism, considering Master Ben and Jango Fett's culinary inclinations.

He scarfs down half his portion, ignoring the bitter caf in favor of a fizzy citrus drink, because one strong flavor deserves another, and pauses mid-chew when he can feel a spike of bitter anger through his bond with his master.

Obi-Wan drops his utensil in his bowl, gulps down half his drink, and makes his way to the rear hold, hearing an odd, heavy clang that has him moving faster.

When Obi-Wan makes it to the scaffold, overlooking the hold, he can see his master standing just inside the cargo container they'd converted into a cell, his silhouette looming over Tam Saxon, the mando pale faced and reeking fear. Fett steps over, grabbing his arm, and Obi-Wan can tell Fett is wary, and why. He has no problems working with them, even with them being _Jetiise_ , but open displays of their power will always make him uneasy. His master shrugs it off, taking another step towards Saxon, and in that step Obi-Wan can feel the waiting coil of danger, like a serpent ready to strike.

"Master." Obi-Wan calls, Fett reaching for him again. Master Ben doesn't even seem to register his voice, intent on whatever he is saying to Saxon, intent on the man's reaction. "Master!" Obi-Wan snaps loudly, the word bouncing off the walls, and prodding along their bond, though he pulls away quickly at the pull of hi master's darker emotions. The entire hold is rife with _anger-fear-bitterness_ , from all three of them men below, and Obi-Wan doesn't want to get caught in it.

His master finally seems to catch himself, and pulls back, physically and emotionally, stepping away and moving closer to Obi-Wan, taking deep, measured breathes. Obi-Wan looks back when Fett closes the container, Saxon not having dared to get up, brow damp with a cold sweat, and the _Mand'alor_ nods to the padawan in recognition, which makes Obi-Wan feel uneasy. He looks back down, where he can all but sense his master spiraling into self-recrimination.

"Master." Obi-Wan calls again, and his master looks up. Obi-Wan studies his face, as his master studies Obi-Wan's, not one of those deep, searching looks or critical evaluations, but a pensive sort of look, like he's attributing something to memory. Obi-Wan sighs to himself. "Meditate with me." He says softly, leaving no room for debate on the matter.

His master has been doing so much better, but he has a terrible habit of discarding his own well-being at the first opportunity, and Obi-Wan has a feeling he hasn't been keeping up with Healer Kala's assignments. Obi-Wan _knows_ that neither of them have been mediating much. Fett couldn't abide the stillness, often interrupting them to spar, or argue, or work on the ship, and Fish seemed to have some inherent dislike to peace. Clearly, both Jedi will have to be more diligent.

"It appears we interrupted your dinner." Master Ben remarks blandly, as they pass the galley and Obi-Wan moves his dishes into the sanitizer.

"Probably for the best." Obi-Wan replies dryly. "I'm not sure much more of that wouldn't have caused some sort of permanent damage. You two should go easier on the red sauce."

His master chuffs. "Not likely, padawan."

The retreat into their cabin, and Obi-Wan pulls the pillows from the bunks, having already meditated on the cold grooved floor and decided that doing so was dreadful. His master accepts his with gratitude and they settle down.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath.

"You've fought the Death Watch before." the padawan suggests quietly.

His master looks at him, expression guarded. "I have." He admits.

Obi-Wan plucks at a non-existent loose thread on his trousers. "You lost someone?" He asks. He could almost have seen the shape of them, for a moment, an intense grief in the shadow of his master's anger.

His master swallows, the lines around his eyes tightening. "I can't...talk about this with you." He says.

Obi-Wan meets his master's gaze, studying the shadowed blue-grey, flecked with green, interrupted by a few stray cinnomon colored hairs.

"Okay." Obi-Wan nods. "You don't have to talk about it with me. Just... " Obi-Wan struggles for a moment, trying to make himself clear but not wanting to shove an entire mess of emotion and _intent-thought_ down the bond at his master when his master is already dealing with his own disturbed feelings. "You don't have to hide it, either. I'm your padawan, and I want to help you, master. You can trust me. I'l support you." 

A sweet, fleeting sort of smile flickers across his master's face. "Oh, Obi-Wan," he says, breathing out a sigh. "You cannot imagine the depths to which I understand that. Please, never doubt yourself on my account."

This - his master's ability to go from elusive to emotionally overwhelming - this is clearly what maddened everyone about him. Obi-Wan included. But even those glimpses, as intense and occasionally unsettling at they could be, Obi-Wan wouldn't trade them - or his unpredictable master - for anything. He smiles back.

Together, they reach out with their senses, closing their eyes, and breathing in deep and slow, almost as one being.

~*~

"He makes a good pass at it, but he's not entirely on an even keel, is he?" Fett questions, nearly scaring Obi-Wan right out of his skin as he raided the galley for a nutrition bar, his half-ration dinner after missing lunch not having been enough to get him through till morning. Not while snacking was an option, at least.

Obi-Wan looks down in dismay at the bar he's just crumbled in his clenched fingers, and then look up at Fett, affronted on so many levels. "Neither are you." Obi-Wan retorts. "Which makes me question _my_ sanity."

Fett snorts at his attitude and looks back down at the blaster he was cleaning. It's somewhere in the middle of the ships night cycle, and in about two more hours Obi-Wan and Ben have to wake up for their call from Shili, which has not aligned with their current cycle well at all. Fett is tucked into the corner of the booth, parts and pieces littering the table, accomplishing his task by sheer memory, unless he has far better night-vision that Obi-Wan gives him credit for - when he's not wearing his bucket - and drinking...black ale, by the smell of it.

Obi-Wan takes a minute longer to process this situation than usual, but to be fair, he's not exactly awake right now.

He is experienced enough to recognize someone avoiding nightmares when he sees them.

They have about seven hours before they need to drop out of hyperspace and prepare for their inflitration of the Death Watch training camp, and he'd really prefer they all slept before then.

"Do you need help putting those back together?" Obi-Wan offers, cramming a piece of his crumbling snack in his mouth.

"No." Fett snorts.

Obi-Wan chews, watching him. He knows that eventually, him just standing there watching is going to bother Fett enough to do something about it.

"Do you need help falling asleep?" Obi-Wan offers, when Fett looks ready to snap at him.

Fett shoots him a short-tempered look, dark eyes shining in the low night-cycle red-light. "What are you going to do, sing me a lullaby?" He scoffs.

Obi-Wan sighs. "I could make a light hypnotic suggestion." Obi-Wan wiggles his fingers, indicating the Force in the most irritating manner possible. "You're too strong-minded for it to take if you don't want it to."

"No." Fett says shortly.

"Are you going to sleep before we need to drop out of hyperspace?" Obi-Wan asks.

Fett turns over the half-pieced together blaster in his hands, hesitating. Obi-Wan sighs, cramming the rest of his nutrition bar in his mouth and chewing aggressively. He swallows and crosses his arms crossly.

"Look, this is your mission, but you brought us here. I'd prefer it if our mission leader didn't go into action after being awake for thirty hours straight." Obi-Wan says flatly. "And going in hyped on caf or stim tabs is even worse, particularly considering-" Obi-Wan closes his mouth, biting his cheek.

"Cosnidering what?" Fett growls.

"Look, my master isn't allowed to take stim tabs, and he really shouldn't be drinking whatever it is you're passing off as caf. I'm pretty sure you shouldn't either, and for the same reasons." Obi-Wan says.

"Reasons being?" Fett prompts with authority.

"He suffers from Traumatic Stress Response. Stimulants can exacerbate the symptoms."

Fett stares flatly at him for half a minute, and then cracks a ragged laugh. " _Wayii_ , we're just fucked, aren't we?"

"Rude." Obi-Wan scowls. "We'll be fine."

"You think so?"

"With absolute certainty." Obi-Wan says, with a tease of a grin to lighten the mood.

"And why is that, _jed'ika_?" Fett inquires dryly, deciding to play into the ruse.

"We're mandalorian." Obi-Wan shrugs with exaggerated carelessness. "Or as mandalorian as some of us can be. Two Jedi and a King? I'll take those odds."

"Oh, you certainty have it were it counts." Fett mutters, trading his blaster for his cup. "To Mandalore." He cheers blandly, and quaffs it down. Obi-Wan lifts a brow, but Fett does, in fact, drag himself out of the booth a moment later.

"No _jetii_ mind tricks." He warns Obi-Wan, who holds up his hands innocently. 

"No jedi mind tricks." He promises. Fett still grumbles, eyeing him suspiciously as he pieces his blasters back together in quick efficiency and holsters themm, heading back to his cabin.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes at the Mand'alor's back, and follows in search of his own bunk, stomach no longer clenching in hunger.

He's not really nearly so at ease with what they are about to do, but he remembers one of his early lessons with his master. _Cuyir beskar vaii val cuyir paak_ ; _Be iron where they are salt_. If they are weak, show them strength to rely on. Jango Fett and Ben Naasade were probably two of the most competent and dangerous men in the galaxy. They were also pretty fucking fucked up, in Obi-Wan's opinion. If they needed a little reassurance, Obi-Wan was more than capable of providing it for them.

He just wished they needed it less when they were supposed to be sleeping.

Honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:
> 
> Dar'manda - one who is stripped of the right to call themselves Mandalorian. The worst thing you can say to a mandalorian.
> 
> Aruetti - traitor.
> 
> Oritsir jetii sha'buir - cursed jedi bastard.  
> Bal gar - and you  
> Gar - you  
> Hu'tuun - coward.
> 
> Kyr'stad - Death Watch  
> Resol'nare - six tenants  
> Wayii- good grief, ah hell  
> Jed'ika - little jedi, term of endearment.


	16. Chapter 16

Lachas Bey was, if he were to say so himself, very good at his job. Not the best – he _knew_ who the best was, and he wasn’t there yet – but _good_.

He has a solid twelve years of commitment to the Royal Service backing him up, and he’s never once let himself assume that being _good_ at it was good enough. Those kind of assumptions turned _good_ people into _gone_ people, and he wasn’t going out that way.

At least, not if he could help it.

Which is why getting caught out like a second year graduate feels so much kriffing worse for him. Lachas doesn’t freeze up – he’s too well trained for that – he keeps walking, but he knows, deeply, that he’s caught. Whomever is following him right now, they _allowed_ him to notice he was being followed. All the typical choices – don’t deviate from his current path, deviate, turn and confront – were decided for him before they chose to reveal themselves. They’ll let him play out his choices as he will, but eventually, no matter what those choices are, Lachas is going to do exactly as they want him to.

It was a game of predictability. The possibilities are many, but ultimately, not infinite. Thus, it was possible to predict every outcome to any choice he might have in this moment, and plan accordingly. A pain in the ass, but possible. One of Lachas’s mentors had been annoyingly good at it, so that niggling feeling in his gut? He knows exactly what that is.

And unfortunately, this is not one of his mentor’s surprise visits.

 _Flee, feign innocence, find witnesses, fight_ , _or follow their lead_?

Lachas doesn’t want to draw this out. He turns right, towards the lifts, instead of left, towards the Alderaani offices, at the next corridor exchange, and picks one at random. He heads down four levels, to a bistro that makes berry-cakes that the junior senator likes and serves a blend of caf that won’t strip your stomach. It’s a public area, neutral, and the booths offer a respectable amount of secure privacy, at least as much as anywhere in the Senate District.

He’s a little spooked, but his comms and sensors are still functioning flawlessly, so he’s fairly certain he’s not about to be murdered. It’s when equipment started to suffer seemingly harmless but odd malfunctions that you knew you were in serious trouble.

Besides, they clearly wanted to say hello.

He really, really tries not to let the fact that they arrive at the bistro before him bother him. He really does. They order at the counter some sweet monstrosity of frozen custard and candied fruit sauce and take it to exactly the table Lachas would have chosen. He waits in line, orders his caf and berry cake, and joins them.

His clothes are standard style for hired bodyguards and personal staff; black trousers, utility boots, a fancy collar and buttons on an otherwise utilitarian green shirt, a grey vest with a thin chest-plate in the lining, and a layered hem in darkening shades of grey to disguise it.

But no emblems of office, no adornents or jewelry, no badges on the belt. Distinct enough to be recognized for what he is – what he is pretending to be, at least – but nothing outright identifying other than his features. Average height, heavy-set shoudlers. Flawless hazel-hued skin, thick dark hair that curled around his ears, and mossy green eyes. He licks his spoon and offers Lachas one of the most endearing smiles he’s ever seen on a grown man, human or otherwise.

Lachas does not smile back, as a wariness builds in his gut. He looks like hired do-as-I’m-told-and-don’t-wonder-why-because-I-haven’t-got-much-going-on-upstairs muscle. On the attractive side, but easily dismissible, and, aside from what must obviously be his profession, rather harmless.

Seven hells, but it’s a kriffing good cover if he’s ever seen one.

“I thought it was due that we ought to meet,” He says, twirling his spoon in the candied fruit sauce, and Lachas tries not to cringe at how obnoxiously sweet that dish must be, because truly, his pallet does not sympathize with that at all. He sips his caf, pleasingly bitter. “ as it’s become obvious to me that you and I are working what I believe will ultimately prove to be the same problem.”

“Are we?” Lachas inquires blandly. Like the man across from him, he fits his mold perfectly. He’s taller than his counterpart and a little stocky, but Alderaanian’s tended to run that way, with fair olive-toned skin and silky dark hair pulled back in a low clasp, in the same stately greys as any number of a hundred Alderaani attendees and assistants, all but invisible beneath their neat grey caps, which shadowed their eyes. He looks younger than he is, an effect he uses to his full advantage, and he plays on the quiet, nervous, and slightly too eager to please mannerisms of those staff who serve the Senate. Slightly annoying, but easily ignored. He wants to be ignored.

The sugar-laden spoon gets pointed in his direction. “Yes. Which I find interesting.” Grey eyes skim around the room and come back to meet his gaze again. Lachas blinks, frowning internally, because he had sworn the other mans eyes were green. And he blinks again, because they _are_.

“I know what due cause led to my present assignment, but it’s been eluding our operation as to what due cause led to Alderaan’s interest? The connection is obvious, of course, but the _reason_ …” The Jedi Shadow frowns – and he can only be a Jedi Shadow.

Well, Lachas supposes, a prickle running down his spine, not _only_.

Lachas has heard of, but never met one of the Order’s Shadow’s before. There was unproven intelligence that Master Naasade, of special interest to the Queen, was formerly a Shadow, and having observed the Jedi in question, Lachas could believe it, but one sample did not a study make.

“This was poorly done.” Lachas says abruptly, frowning outright, and the Jedi stops musing, green eyes focusing.

“Pardon?” He queries, though there is a quirk to his lips that suggests he knows exactly Lachas’ meaning.

“We have no reason to have met.” Lachas says quietly, watching the room in the reflection on the blue transparatint table. “We haven’t even left the Senate Arena.”

“Ah.” The Shadow – possible Shadow – nods, and then slurps down another spoonful of frozen, slightly melted custard. “You’re operating on the assumption that the enemy doesn’t already know exactly who we are and what we’re doing.”

Lachas glares at him.

“Alright, to be fair, they probably have been unaware of you. You’re not Force Sensitive, and the Alderaani spy network has history, training, and sheer scope on its side. But if I can get to you, they can too.” He says, twirling his spoon in the candied fruit sauce, and Lachas tries not to cringe at how obnoxiously sweet that dish must be, because truly, his pallet does not sympathize with that at all. He sips his caf, pleasingly bitter.

“The Sith.” Lachas states, tapping his fingers on the table. It doesn’t smudge. He didn’t expect it to.

“So you do know what you’re looking for.” His companion states, grey eyes skimming the room again. Lachas blinks, and those eyes are green. Internally, Lachas scowls.

“No.” The alderaani says, sipping his caf, grimacing, and then setting it on the table. “ I was looking for anyone who could do harm to the Jedi. Who _has_ , in so far as we are aware, made significant efforts to do harm to the Jedi. If you’re involved, however, then it’s far worse than we had considered. Which leads me to my conclusion.”

“The Sith.” The Shadow smiles, tapping his spoon off his lip, and nods as if rewarding his reasoning. “You’re not even flinching at the prospect. I _knew_ I’d like you.”

“And I’d like to wake up now.” Lachas says blandly. The setting was exacting in detail, most of it supplied undoubtedly from his own mind, the taste-smell of the obnoxiously sweet desert and bitter caf sensationally grounding, and the company distracting, but dreams and illusions were always flawed at the seams. The shift in eye color, the lack of fingerprints on the table, the repetition – Lachas was trained to be cognizant of when his senses were failing him, or being manipulated.

“You haven’t finished your cake.” The Shadow pouts.

“It’s not real.” Lachas retorts, and now that he is consciously aware of that, the edges of his reality take on a blurry, watery, nauseating quality.

“Fair enough.”

“How _did_ you get to me?” Lachas inquires, thinking he may as well. The bistro was a terrible place to meet – but a dream was as secure as anything ever could be.

“Truth be told?” The Shadow smiles. “We found you because you just about found us. You are _very_ good at your job, Lachas Bey.” The Jedi says, standing now on a field of wavering white, running with transparent shades of other colors. He bows. “You can call me Third Brother. I look forward to working with you.”

“ _No_.” Lachas replies flatly, and wakes up.

His neck aches, and he shifts, lifting his head. He’s sitting in a booth at the bistro, the traffic outside telling him it’s only mid-afternoon. People around him seem entirely unperturbed. He checks his comm, and determines that he’s lapsed maybe an hour. He remembers walking into the bistro, ordering caf, and sitting down, trying to make sense of the senatorial minutes he’d been tasked with developing summaries for. The part of pretending to be an aide, unfortunately, including actually performing the work of a senatorial aide. His datapads have entered sleep mode, and his cup of caf is stone cold.

“Cup of caf on the house.” The waitstaff appears with a smile, and Lachas nods curtly at them, accepting the cup with a dose of caution. “I would like to suggest the berry-cake.” They add, in the slightly dreamy tone of someone who isn’t sure why they’re motivated to do such a thing.

Apparently, the cup of caf is from his elusive Jedi friend.

Lachas sighs. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, thank you.”

He taps the table, leaving fingerprints, and click his comm in a pattern. There is no reply – one way communication was more secure. Lachas takes a sip, and winces unfavorably. Someone has dumped a wretched amount of sweetener into it. He swills his cold caf just to clear his mouth, gathers his datapads, and goes back to work.

~*~

“Bail.”

“ _A moment_.” His voice comes through slightly distant, which tells her he’s working on a committee presentation, and pacing as he works out the exact phrasing. Breha hums, and waits, sharing a look with her handmaiden, who is in fact her spymaster.

Breha has an attendance to make at the Capitol Art Gallery in less than an hour, and this isn’t a conversation she can discreetly hide behind the edge of a champagne flute. And her spymaster, shrewd woman that she is, has flatly informed Breha that as endearing as their comm-link romance may be, having murmured conversations in public with her illicit lover was not particularly discreet. Breha is aware, but Bail is hard to resist.

She misses him.

She had told herself that she understood the sacrifices they’d have to make, being who they were and doing as they wished to do, but still, she misses him.

She can hear a soft, resigned sigh. Clearly, the committee proposal is being uncooperative. “ _Love_?” He inquires.

“It appears the Jedi’s own investigations have brought them into contact with ours.” Breha says. “They’d like for our people to work together.”

Bail is quiet a moment, thinking.

“No.” He concludes, as Breha had done, but his reasons are sometimes surprisingly different than hers, and she appreciates the differing perspectives but aligning goals. “Separation would provide more validation. And while sharing resources would be expedient, it wouldn’t be as secure. The Jedi are under intense scrutiny. _We_ are not.”

Ah, yes, the Jedi state of affairs. Breha had her own piece to contribute to that. If she found the time. It would be a few days to a few weeks before the Senate finally heaved it's gargantuan body along enough to react in any official capacity, if it chose to do so, and Breha intended to be prepared.

“I do love it when you agree with me.” Breha muses. “Though my poor agent is quite disgruntled. They’ve compromised him, and he’ll have to be reassigned.”

“Keep him within reach.” Bail suggests. “We don’t want to work together, but having someone to get in touch with may be for the best.”

Breha nods along wit his reasoning. “That would avoid us having to replace one of your aides.” She says.

“One of my – _Breha_.” Bail chides, and Breha realizes her slip, her spymaster giving her a dry look of scolding. “One of my aides? _Which_ one?”

Breha smiles coyly. “I’m afraid I have to go, Bail. The Queen is expected.”


	17. Chapter 17

Watching Naasade strap himself into the armor answers every question Fett ever had about the man’s past, save one – but you never ask what cause a man had to give up his name. He knows what he’s doing, which pieces go where, face what way, which clasps you tighten first, where the top edge of your chest-plate should rest, how you turn your wrist to slide on the vambraces.

He looks uncomfortable as hell, putting on another mans armor, but the _jetii_ is clearly familiar with what he’s doing, in the way only experience brings. Nassade’s worn _beskar’gam_ before, and worn it well. The borrowed _kyr’stad_ armor isn’t a perfect fit, but Naasade adjusts it with ease, discarding those pieces which can’t be adjusted, or which he simply prefers to go without. Fett wonders what his preferred alignment is, thinking about the _jetii’s_ range of motion and flexibility, drawing up the more maneuverable configurations in his minds eye. Then he stops himself.

“At least you actually give those colors meaning.” Obi-Wan says, scratching at the collar of his borrowed shirt. Naasade looks crossly at the teenager, who holds his hand up to spare any offense. He’s not _wrong_. Blue for reliability, black for justice, red for honor. They certainly aren’t Naasade’s colors, but they do suit him.

“You do realize, _verd’ibir_ , that stealing armor you don’t have the right to wear is a death sentence on Mandalore?” Naasade say irritably to his padawan.

“Lucky we’re with the _Mand’alor_ , then.” Obi-Wan retorts dryly. “And he can pardon you for your terrible crime. At least you _get_ armor. I don’t even have my silks.”

Naasade pauses, adjusting the armored glove, and looks his padawan up and down. “We could fix you an undershirt…” He suggests, frowning.

“We already agreed that it would be too suspicious if I had something like that.” Obi-Wan says. “I can do without, _baji’buir_.”

It is not, admittedly, a terrific plan.

A full forward assault is not feasible, will likely lose them their target, and get an utterly unnecessary amount of people killed. So the plan is that Naasade, posing as Saxon, will deliver ‘Benau’, a reluctant recruit, to the compound, and under that guise, the both of them will seek out Bo-katan. Once they’ve found her, they’ll signal Jango, who will bring in the second _kom’rk_ vessel. At that point, they know any plan they make is going to go to hell, so they’re going to improvise their exit strategy.

Sometimes, there is a very fine line between wisdom and madness, and Jango thinks they’re flirting dangerously with the edges of that line.

Obi-Wan passes his lightsaber to his master, who secures it in a canister on his belt, along with his own, and Jango reminds himself that the boy is well trained, with or without his weapon. He is well trained and of age. Hells, at fourteen Jango had been considered an adult, having passed the _verd’goten_ , his Mandalorian trial of adulthood, set by Jaster, his _buir_.

Then again, Jango hadn’t realized how very young fourteen really was at the time.

He grits his teeth. The _jed’ika_ will be fine.

Nasaade glances his way, his left brow twitching up slightly, and Fett nods in acknowledgement to the silent query. They will all be fine. They were _jatnase be te jatnase_ – _the best of the best_. It was why they were _here_.

“You need to stop.” Obi-Wan says, drawing Jango’s attention. The teenager has his arm crossed, and a grumpy look on his face, directed at the _Mand’alor_. “I can only handle one person’s nerves right now, and those nerves are mine. Quit freaking out because you’re going to be up here while we’re down there.”

“Obi-Wan…” Naasade sighs at his padawan for his lack of tact, but then gives Jango a look that suggests he does agree with the boy.

Jango growls, standing up to pace. Fish whoop-whoops mockingly at him, and truly, once he hands that droid back to its family, he never wants to see it again. He hates that the _jetii_ are right, but not so much as he fucking hates being somewhere else while his men walk into battle. That’s what happened at Galidraan, and look how fucking well that turned out.

~*~

“ _Epar’tyc, gar chakaaryc shabuir_!” Obi-Wan snarls, landing in the dirt as Ben none-so-gently shoves the cuffed teenager off the loading ramp. The padawan bristles and jerkily rights himself with all the tension and roiling anger of a child of mandalore, genuine enough to convince even his master - with or without his invectives. _Eat shit, you rotten bastard_!

Colorful, to say the least. Ben is glad of the bucket he’s wearing, hiding his face.

The pair of mandos waiting to meet the ship laugh, and one steps up to haul the teenager up to his feet.

“Oh, yeah, this one has the passions in him.” They comment, amused. “We just need to turn it in the right direction.”

“I’d keep your gloves on if I were you.” Ben warns, exaggerating his imitation of Saxon’s homeworld accent. “He bites.”

Obi-Wan spits in his direction, and shoves at his handler, driving his elbow into the chink between the chest plate and the stomach guard. The _kyr’stad_ mando grunts and shoves the boy, before backhanding him with an armored glove.

Obi-Wan hits the dirt again, his mouth bloodied. Ben forces himself not to react, stepping casually down the ramp until he’s looming over the boy, who huffs and spits out red as he pushes himself back up.

“You’ll have to do better than that, _vod’ika_.” Ben drawls mockingly, and the _kyr’stad_ mando reaches down, grabs Obi-Wan by the hair, and hauls him back up again, Obi-Wan grimacing and hissing in through his teeth. Ben had bound his padawans braid into a tight leather cord, on which Fett had sewn three wooden chips, painted with the symbols for truth, honor, and vision. It was a promise totem, and as such, no Mandalorian should dare remove it.

Not that that was any guarantee at all, here.

“Oh, he’ll learn.” The _kyr’stad_ mando says. “We train _real_ _mando’ade_ here. You need to fuel up, _vod_?” They inquire, turning to Ben.

Ben bites his cheek to stop from snapping at the man in front of him, who had no damn right to call him _brother_. Ben had had brothers once. Good men, honorable men, _brave_ men. Ten million shades of the same burning spirit, who embodied the best of what made a mando despite their circumstances and their fate.

“The ship, no; me, yes.” Ben grunts, earning a snort of commiseration.

“Ha, the main chow is straight south – you can’t miss it. The _bajuriise_ chow is at the top of the hill. It’s not as close and the slope isn’t friendly, but it’s better than what they serve the trainees. Your choice.”

“ _Vor’e_.” Ben thanks the man with a tip of his helmet, and heads south, striding past Obi-Wan, who glares at him with a twist of hate to his face that’s expected and utterly disturbing.

“A year from now, _vod’ika_ , and you’ll be thanking that man for what he’s done for you.” Ben hears behind him.

“Fuck you.” Obi-Wan snarls back, and truly, you could _not_ tell that the boy was raised in the serene cloister of the Coruscant Temple.

~*~

Obi-Wan fights just enough to prove that he can as he lets them drag him through their encampment and into a more heavily fortified and guarded facility. Their first stop is a processing center where he’s finally uncuffed - with several locked doors between him an any exit - stripped, and shoved into an industrial sanitizer. The water is freezing, the sonic rough, and the blue light in the quarantine decontamination cell far too bright, as he stands there for an hour and shivers irritably. It’s a _lovely_ introduction.

He shuffles out when the door opens, and he gets grabbed the moment they see him.

“Why the hell didn’t you take this-“ The woman spits, and then stops, frowning at his brace as she studies it more critically.

Her companion, a bored looking zabrak in a physicians close-collared shirt, peers at them, not bothering to get up from his stool. “Sarai?” He inquires.

“It’s a medical brace.” Her gaze rakes him up and down, taking in the burn scars on his side, and the uneven line on his face. Obi-Wan jerks his hand out of her grip.

“Which is why I didn’t take it off.” He spits, trying to stop shivering and hoping they give him something to wear soon. Jedi younglings and initiates all have communal freshers, so he’s not particularly bothered by his own nudity, but he _is_ cold, and mandalorians have a stronger value for privacy. As far as mind games go, they are off to a great psychological start.

The physicians (though he is highly skeptical of their actual medical qualifications) scan him from head to toe, poking and prodding, and deem him physically fit, healthy, and parasite free before shoving him through the next door.

“ _Aliit_?” The next processor demands, while Obi-Wan is still trying to catch his balance.

“Benau of Clan Jaban. House Betoya.” Obi-Wan declares mulishly.

“House _Vizla_ now, Benau of Clan Jaban.” They scoff, entering his data. “What are you, thirteen?”

Obi-Wan sets his jaw and refuses to answer.

He ends up on the floor again for that, clutching his stomach. “Fourteen.” He spits out, gasping. The mando hauls him to his feet by the arm, and shoves him towards a droid. He’s dispensed two sets of sleep clothes, two utility uniforms, and two under-armor body suits, but slip on flats instead of boots and socks. Toiletries, a towel, and a preprogrammed wrist-lock comm-link which he is absolutely certain contains a tracking device and an alarm, should he attempt to remove it.

He isn’t actually allowed to dress before he’s grabbed by the back of the neck, marched down a series of corridors, and unceremoniously shoved into a dormitory.

“Red Unit! I’ve got a new recruit for you!” He shouts into the room, which is lined with twelve bunks, only about half of which appear to be in use. Immediately, one individual jumps to attention, swinging around one of the bunks and radiating an anger Obi-Wan can feel pressing on him in the Force. “Meet Red Nine.”

“It had _better_ not be another fucking _kid_!” She shouts, before she even has them in her sights.

“You get what you get, Red Leader. He’ll fit right in.” The man drawls pettily, lifting the hand from Obi-Wan’s neck to yank on his red hair. Glancing around the room, Obi-Wan can definitely tell the theme – red skin, red eyes, red hair.

“ _Gar pirvorii go'naasir be abiik_ -“ She goes _off_ , storming up the row between the bunks, and the mando drops his free hand on the stun-blaster at his belt. She halts just out of swinging range, and Obi-Wan doesn’t doubt that the stunner has seen frequent use, as the young woman is brimming with fury and disgust that swamps the room, for all that her every physical motion speaks of rigid discipline.

“You want to challenge me, Red Leader?” The man sneers. “That didn’t go so well for you last time.”

Her face twists in a snarl, and she backs down, crossing her arms and grounding her stance to something a little less close to a lunge.

“That’s what I thought.” He snorts, and Obi-Wan decides he’s hand enough of being grabbed, jerks his hands up, grabs hold of the man’s wrist, and twists, yanking forward with just a _little_ assistance from the Force. The _kyr’stad_ mando is on his feet again almost as soon as he hits the ground, and Obi-Wan doesn’t even see the blow that knocks him to the floor again, but he does see the boot that slams into his stomach and slams his back into the square durasteel post of the bunk behind him. The mando leans down over him, and the muzzle of the blaster kisses his ear.

“Do you know what a stunner does to your brain at this range, Benau?” He growls warningly.

Obi-Wan presses his lips together, keeping his mouth shut, taking sharp, rapid breathes through his nose, still trying to recover.

“ _Respond_ , trainee!” He barks, and Obi-Wan nods sharply, the weapon digging into his skull, pressed against the hard duracrete flooring.

The blaster is pulled back, and the mando steps away. “Get up. Get dressed.” He barks, and then turns on Red Leader. “He’s your problem now. Deal with him.”

He stalks out, the dormitory nervously quiet in his wake even after the door seals again. Obi-Wan pulls himself up using the bunk, his supplies strewn on the floor, and winces as his body protests the recent abuse.

“Are you here willingly?” Red Leader asks, as Obi-Wan snags a pair of underwear from the floor and shuffles into the ill-fit garment.

“Only a fucking _or’dinii_ would come here willingly.” Obi-Wan spits, still having issue with getting into a pair of pants.

“ _Kyr’stad_ is the future of Mandalore.” She retorts coldly. “A return to the glory of old.”

“ _Kote lo'shebs'ul narit_.” Obi-Wan snaps, jerking the slightly too small trousers up his hips and glaring at her contemptuously. _You can keep your glory_.

She studies him, her pale green eyes flinty and piercing, like a bird of prey. Obi-Wan glares coolly back. A mottling of yellow-purple bruises paint her face from jaw to temple, most of it hidden beneath her red hair, which is chopped short. Scabs and blisters mark her hands, and she smells like the menthe from muscle soothers.

He had expected her to look more like her sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:
> 
> Benau - name meaning 'Of the Light'.
> 
> Vod'ika = little brother.  
> Vod = brother/sister - in blood or by battle  
> Mando'ade = sons and daughters of Mandalore  
> Bajuriise = instructors/trainers/educators  
> Vor'e = thanks.  
> aliit = identity/ name and clan/ allegiances  
> or'dinii = moron.  
> Gar pirvorii go'naasir be abiik - you slimy waste of oxygen


	18. Chapter 18

“The Senate and the Order have been the twin pillars of the Republic for the last thousand years!” The speaker for Rhodia says sharply, pods crowding the center of the dome, voices overlapping as they competed in their outrage.

“Poetically, maybe, but in practicality, the Jedi Order does _not_ function as a branch of this government. They occupy a role solely in assisting this Republic in its function as a democracy and in ensuring represented worlds both adhere to and are adequately supported by this body. They serve not as officers, but as advisors and negotiators, rescuers and independent investigators – at our mutual discretion.” The speaker from Harun Kal countered.

“And should that discretion not be called into question?” The Senator for Kuat cries out.

“Who knows what the Jedi could be planning! Separating from the Republic-“

“The Jedi have no intention to remove ourselves from the Republic-“ Knight Gallia states firmly, holding her ground in a rapidly devolving debate that had the Chancellor and the Chancellor-Elect looking at each other miserably.

“Perhaps they should.” A Banking Guild representative snipes.

“Preposterous!”

“Allowing them to act indiscriminately with power such as theirs-“

“You cannot take control of an independent society simply because it’s members are powerful. That violates the most basic tenants of sentient rights. The Jedi are a religious order which operates as an independent entity-“ Senator Organa protests, voice level and clear.

“Except they do not operate _only_ as an independent organization! How can they be trusted to act in our interests without greater ties to –“

“If you would trust them to act in your interest for a _pittance_ but not on grace, when the mere concept of capitol profit goes against their beliefs, I’m concerned you may be _deeply_ mistaken in your understanding of - “ The Speaker for Lothal cuts in dryly.

“How can this body be trusted to wield the Jedi’s power more responsibly than they themselves can?” A voice rises from one of those pods still connected to their port in the dome, and the Vice Chancellor overrides the comm amplifiers to recognize a new entry into this…debacle.

“The Senate recognizes the Speaker from Mandalor.” He addresses, the other pods momentarily overruled by procedure, much to their upset.

The Mandalor pod floats down, though refrains from fully entering the chaotic mess the many speakers have made.

“If the Jedi relied more upon their own judgement and strictures than upon the discretion and direction of this bickering council before me, perhaps the tragedy at Galidraan could have been avoided. This body utilized sworn peace-keepers as a blunt instrument in quelling an affair inadequately understood and deliberately misrepresented by corrupt officials – officials who _were_ formal members of government. As a direct result of the judgement of this so-called senatorial oversight, and of the interference in political affairs by the _ostensibly_ neutral Jedi Order, violence and unrest in my system has only escalated - “ The cutting criticism of both parties is interrupted by a disdainful snort.

“Mandalore is _always_ escalating in violence.”

The young Satine Kryze fixes her interrupter with a cold stare, backed up by the Senator standing just at her shoulder, having allowed the youth ambassador to stand in his place for the discussion, considering this was not a formal vote so much as it was a rally for deciding whether or not their need _be_ an official proposal and vote.

The heckler scoffs, but also looks away, quieted.

“The tenets of the Jedi Order often conflict with the instructions handed down by this body, putting their duty at odds with their faith. The regulations and restrictions likewise inflicted upon them has demonstratably led to the direct and near catastrophic decline of their Order. Am I wrong, Knight Gallia?”

The Jedi dips her head slightly. “I could not say so, Ambassador Kryze.”

“Then my position is affirmed. Mandalore is of the opinion that the internal affairs of the Jedi Order ought be left to the Jedi Order, and that the Jedi, for all their good intent, ought leave the affairs of the Senate to the Senate.” She adds firmly.

“A position Kalee seconds.” Ambassador San Luruur intones, grating voice carrying out. The Vice-Chancellor recognizes their pod. “For my people nearly shared a very similar fate, were it not for the independent confirmation of a Jedi Master as to the situation as the Senate believed it to be.”

Their arguments represent a collision of turning points in the debate, wherein questioning the separation of the Senate and the Order now descends into questioning who is to be blamed as to the right and the wrong in that separation, and the original point is lost entirely.

~*~

She waits until he has his pants on, at least.

And then she slaps him.

“Do you want to survive, Red Nine?” She demands, while Obi-Wan clasps a hand over his cheek, more shocked than hurt, though his mouth throbs from an earlier punch and he has bruises aplenty. She takes a step closer, crowding his personal space, practically sharing breath as she stares him down, her eyes gleaming and deadly serious. “Then mind yourself. Don’t be _stupid_.”

Obi-Wan stares back at her, and he can feel desperation bleeding off of her in the Force. Desperation, fury, conviction; she’s a well of passions stoked and fanned into constant motion, like a forge bellowed hotter and hotter, surprisingly vivid for someone not particularly Force Sensitive.

Obi-Wan breathes in sharply through his nose, dropping his hand from the sting in his cheek, and nods. She stares him down a little more and then takes a rigid step back. “You can call me Red Leader or Bo-katan.” She commands, turning away. Her gaze snaps back to him, eyes flashing. “ _Just_ Bo-katan.” She adds fiercely. Obi-Wan blinks, nodding.

“Red One is Ito.” A peach-skinned twi’lek with red banding on his lekku nods. “Red Three is Ginchi.” A red-skinned zeltron boy. “Red Four is Haras.” Another red-haired human, who looks Bo-katan’s age, if not a little older. He looks up at them, lying on a lower bunk, but there is an unfocused edged to his eyes that speaks of either concussion or…well…

Obi-Wan did know what a stunner of that caliber did to your brain at that close a range.

Red Five was a silver-skinned falleen girl with red and purple markings, and red eyes. Red Seven had brown skin, hair, and eyes, but he’s got tattoos from his fingertips to his ears, done in vibrant red and gold.

He doesn’t ask what happened to the others. Red Two, Six, and Eight. In a way, Bo-katan has already told him.

“Welcome to Death Watch, Red Nine.” She says, stooping and picking up one of his shirts, tossing it at him. “I have only one piece of advice for you; whoever you were, whatever your life was – bury it and move on. You’re _Kyr’stad_ now. You either live the cause,” She warns him. “or you die for it.”

~*~

The rations served in the chow hall were only slightly more diverse than the nutrition packs from the GAR, with the bonus addition of a side of fresh produce and a heavy dose of spicy sauce to add flavor to the protein gruel. It does not make him nostalgic.

There are typical complaints and grumbles from those around him, but Ben had spent four years on Tatooine discovering how many ways one could cook snake, snake, legumes, and more snake. And he spent three years before that mostly on ration bars and powdered bread. He lost the desire to complain about the quality of sustenance, so long as he _had_ sustenance, long ago.

Unless his were switched with Anakin’s. Anakin, on the rare occasions that they were allowed to, special ordered insects for his protein supplement, and Ben had received that delivery mistakenly on _two_ separate occasions, while Anakin received Ben’s.

He takes a few minutes to decide, before taking off his bucket, whether or not he wants to be seen. He decides, for the sake of intelligence gathering, that he does, and crafts an illusion around himself, threading the belief that he is Tam Saxon into his skin, and his voice, and his eyes. He removes the helmet, and no one cries ‘Thief!’ or ‘Imposter!’.

The company around him seems to be a mix of recruits, commandos, instructors, and technicians, both for the operation of the training ground and as a larger base of operations. On the far wall, the shriek-hawk of Clan Vizla looms over them. Pre Vizla, Ben knows, will not come into power for a few years yet, but House Vizla was large and powerful, and had been the leading Clan of Death Watch for generations.

The small clusters of trainees he sees are quiet, eating hastily and scanning the room watchfully, though mostly ignored by everyone else. They look relatively healthy, though sporting bruises, sprains and scrapes aplenty from hard physical training. Emotionally, however, they leave jagged, raw edges in the Force, riddled with fear and desperation, seething and stress. Some of them are shock-numb, some are all burning _conviction-desire_ wrapped around pain – true believers of the cause, or close enough - and a few of them have the unstable wavering of a mind not quite sound, on the edge of unravelling. Ben can’t help but reach out and try to soothe those lashing hurts.

He makes idle conversation, lingering and ensuring he isn’t noticed lingering, learning tidbits about Death Watch’s operations in the area, about their leadership here – who is liked, who is disliked. None of it is truly illuminating – he learns a few locations, a few potential targets to warn, some planets Fett might want to take a closer look at, some of the trainees schedule and regimen – but little beyond that are things he couldn’t have worked out from his own memories. He can feel his padawan in the back of his mind, bursts of pain and irritation and silvery flashes of sharp, critical thinking.

Fett reports to Ben the general layout of the site from his scans, and the security measures he can discern on the training facility. Ben can feel him too, even from atmosphere – a skirting edge of engraged impatience circling his senses that Ben tries to blot out and not take into himself.

‘ _Well_ ,’ Obi-Wan reports, broadcasting down the bond he shares with Ben. ‘ _I found her_.’

‘ _That was expedient_.’ Ben muses back. ‘ _Can you get out with her_?’

‘ _Can I get out with her? Yes_.’ His padawan reports sarcastically. ‘ _Can I get out with her discreetly? No.’_

Ben ruminates on that for less than a minute. Truth be told, looking around, he had little interest in a discreet extraction at this point, and from what he could feel, neither of his counterparts did either.

‘ _Stay with her, padawan. No matter what_.’

‘ _Of course, Master_.’ Obi-Wan responds. ‘ _What are you going to do_?’

Ben smirks to himself a little. ‘ _I’m going to follow the plan, padawan_.’

Obi-Wan recedes a little, and then prods at their connection. ‘ _You’re calling Fett_.’

‘ _I’m calling Fett_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Congratulations gentlebeings! You've successfully spawned at least two installments for Obi-Wan's fifteenth year and I am so freaking excited! I love you all for the feedback and ideas!
> 
> Also - the politics are being difficult. I know you all want to read more of the fallout, and i promise, i'm trying. However! Unnamed installment 2 upcoming is going to deal with a lot of the organizational fallout from this decision too, so, even if you think i forgot, i swear i didn't! I play a _long_ game.


	19. Chapter 19

Ben steps out of the chow hall, bucket once more in place on his head, and tilts his gaze towards the sky, watching a vaporous streak resolve into a speck which resolves into a ship, all clean lines and the suggestion of dangerous intent. He _did_ like the Mandalorian models.

The blue and black vessel, being one of their own, does not cause concern until it banks away from the landing field, spiraling around the compound and encampment in an evocative swoop, and then-

~*~

Da-ka- _boom_!

 _Boom_!

 _Boom_!

The building shudders, lights flickering and switching abruptly to emergency red and white. A siren blares, shrieking over a rising tide of confusion and panic.

“We’re under attack!” Bo-Katan shouts, and lunges for her bunk, where her training weapons lay. They aren’t lethal, but they’re better than nothing. Obi-Wan stays on her heels, and grabs her by the arm when she makes for the door.

“Where are you going?” Obi-Wan demands.

“To help defend my people.” Bo-Katan snarls. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I’m here for you.” Obi-Wan says. “And so are they.” He jerks his head towards the rocking sounds of explosions still shaking the building.

Her expression goes blank, and then turns into a twist of fury. She drops her weapons, grabs him by he throat, and shoves him back until they slam into the wall. “Did my _bu_ \- did _Kryze_ send you?” She demands darkly.

Obi-Wan tightens his grip on her wrists, her grip vicious on his throat. “I’m not here for the Duke.” Obi-Wan says levelly. “Although your sister does miss you.”

Something flashes in her pale green gaze, grip loosening briefly. “Satine?”

Obi-Wan takes his chance and shoves her off. She reacts violently, surprise slipping away, and he tackles her, trying to get her pinned. “Unfortunately, I’m not here for her either.” He grunts, when she lands an elbow in his stomach. “This _is_ a rescue mission!” He yelps.

“I don’t _need_ to be rescued!” Bo-Katan spits.

~*~

The shield generator dies in a wave of plasma before they even get it up and running. Ben rocks a little with the explosion, and then watches fire rain down on anti-aircraft turret after turret, wiping out the aerial defenses, which explode _spectacularly_. Debris rains down, and the Death Watch are boiling out of their structures like wasps from a hive, driven for the kill.

Then, Ben hears the deep thrum of engines firing up.

“Fett.” He snaps into his comm.

 _Boom_!

The _Mand’alor_ banks, and Ben starts running.

“Fett!” He snaps more sharply.

 _Tat-ta-boom-tat-ta-boom_! 

_BOOM_!

He targets the power generators, the blasts kicking up dust and the explosions cracking with displaced energy, making Ben and everyone around him stagger and fall.

“Jango _Fett_!” Ben snarls, smacking his bucket back into a proper seal.

“ _What_?” Fett finally snaps back, crackling over the comm. _“I’m a little busy_!”

“Oh, _are_ you?” Ben inquires snidely, shoving back up to his feet. “You’re about to be a little _more_ busy! You didn’t hit the landing ground!”

“ _You’re parked there_.”

“So was _everyone_ else!”

~*~

Jango swears up a storm, because the _jetii_ is right, but he had a limited option in approach. He can only control the one cannon from the pilot’s chair, and at the outset, the ground turrets were more dangerous to him than the parked fighters.

He watches the other birds take to the air and forces his ship to climb. Fish screams out negative calculations, and Fett swears at the droid too.

“ _I’m on my way_.” Naasade reports tersely. “ _Now would be an excellent time for you to announce yourself.”_

“I’m fairly certain I just did.” Fett grumbles.

He can hear Nasaade’s aggrieved sigh. “ _That is not what I meant_.” Nasaade mutters.

“Yeah, yeah.” Fett mutters sourly, and switches over the comm system to broadcast on all frequencies. There is a sharp retort of feedback, and then the system compensates. He can hear the chatter of the mandos on the ground barking at each other, trying to invoke protocol and discipline, and he sneers that they weren’t prepared already. Clearly, if they thought they were safe, they’d gotten soft.

Or arrogant.

Or maybe… maybe Death Watch had just gotten that powerful. Fett grinds his teeth, his litany burning in his bones, and shoves down the guilt that rises at the memory of Adonai Kryze’s harsh confessions and demands.

“ _I don’t know who you are, you_ _dini’la_ -“

“Then let me introduce myself.” Fett responds, cutting through the threats and posturing of the fighters pulling up on his tail. They strafe the inner atmosphere, searing through clouds with a vicious hiss of steam. “This is Jango Fett.” He says sharply, and takes a breath. “And I am the _Mand’alor_.”

And he couldn’t escape that anymore.

Nasaade, Duke Kryze, Kenobi, Satine Kryze – they were right. He had a duty to his people, and he did not have the right to shirk it. He had done so too long already, wrapped up in pain and rage and grief and fear, selfish and cowardly. And in spite of it, they still believed in him, and what he could be, as their _Mand’alor_.

And they’d tried pretty damn hard to get him to believe in himself again.

He pushes down on the yoke, steering into a screaming dive – literally, in Fish’s case – and the fighters turn and swoop and follow. Fire sparks below, smoke staining the air, and down there were his people, glaring at impossible odds and never doubting victory.

 _Cun oyay_ , Fett thinks – Fett believes. _Our lives for Mandalor_.

 _Even mine_.

 _Especially mine_.

“Stand down.” Fett commands. “Or face traitors’ justice.”

They laugh, whomever is speaking on the Death Watch’s behalf.

“ _There_ is _no Mand’alor, and you really have a jaro if you think a man alone is going to defeat-k-chkchhhhh_ -“ The comm clicks, fire blossoming in a violent start behind Fett, and another _kom’rk_ bursts through the cloud layer in wake of the plume.

“ _The Mand’alor is_ never _alone_.” Naasade snaps over the open comms. “ _Oya Manda_.”

And that’s when they open fire.

~*~

Bo-Katan presses back against the wall, catching her breath, and glares at Benau’s profile, grudgingly impressed, waiting for her chance to get the upper hand.

She wasn’t going to let this catastrophic so-called rescue attempt shatter what she had worked and sacrificed for. Whomever was behind his presence here – they would fail. Death Watch was too strong. Bo-Katan knew that bitterly. Acts such as this, they were just distractions, stinging the hide of a great beast. Annoying, and ultimately bound to fail. Bo-Katan had a better way.

Death Watch would overthrow the old clans. The balance was tipping even now. She could not save them. But she could save Mandalore. She and Satine, they could succeed where her father was failing.

They had no other choice.

And Bo-Katan was not going to let this boy in front of her deny her her mission.

But he was right – regardless of whose side they were on at this very moment, they needed to get the trainees to safety. Half of them were just kids, barely old enough to claim the right to forge armor. They’d collected Red Unit, Yellow Unit, and what parts of Orange and Green they could find, and half a ship had come hailing down on one end of the complex, shattering wreckage in its wake. They were in the training yard now, pressed against the barrier wall, and everyone was watching the sky.

They were unnaturally calm, Bo-Katan thought. She’d been training with and against these units for months, and never had she seen them so cohesively focused. She too felt strangely calm, when fire was literally falling from the sky and her goals were in dire danger.

“Trainees! Who gave you permission to evac?” One of the _bajuriise_ barks, running up to them, weapon in hand.

“The fire suppression system went off when that ship came down.” Benau snaps cuttingly, carrying an unexpected sense of authority and gravitas for a boy his age. He’s lying through his teeth, too, but Bo-Katan would believe him if she didn’t know that.

He sets her on edge.

“Report back to your dormitories. This situation is handled.” The mando barks. “We’ll deal with you later.”

A trailing scream of speed shredding air, and they look up again, the _bajurii_ jolting his weapon skyward as the vessels swoop and wheel, two _kom’rk_ class streaking ahead of the rest. One breaks off, climbing at a dangerous vector, the tilting wings dancing through a hail of green light.

A crossfire starts unexpectedly, another defender streaking out of the clouds, and the ship wheels and loses thrust, spinning wildly as the propulsion tries to compensate, falling like a leaf with one engine smoking. Benau gasps, fists clenching tight, eyes glued to the ship, and Bo-Katan wonders who is up there, and what they mean to him, and why they thought their lives were worth-

 _They came here for_ me.

Bo-Katan lifts her gaze from the boy and watches the ship. Misguided or not, wanted or not, she owes them that much respect.

The descent changes, the spiral slowing, widening out. One engine cuts, going dark, and then immediately the opposite thrusters fire, shooting the ship from horizontal to vertical, seemingly flying on its side, and the engine burns hot as it fires back up, launching the vessel forward and strafing the craft that had been a moment ago behind it. It shoots back into the sky, carving right into oncoming fire until the defenders are forced to break formation.

The two _kom’rk_ meet back up, swooping on twin vectors as if in one machine. As a pair they spin, flip, and fire, sweeping farther apart and forcing the enemy down. Three chasers explode, and Bo-Katan flinches in disbelief. Whomever is in that one vessel – they fly like no one she’s ever seen, riding the razors edge between suicide and perfection.

“Who the fuck is up there?” Bo-Katan demands, startling the _bajuriise_ , who watched the pieces hail down in disbelief.

Benau looks just as shocked as she is, by the flying, but turns towards her regardless, shock cooling into determination and reproach. Bo-Katan glares back, not feeling sorry for his black eye in the least. She _told_ him she didn’t need rescued. Especially not by some boy four years her younger.

“The _Mand’alor_.” He says sharply.

“There _is_ no _Mand’alor_.” Bo-Katan hisses. _Not yet_. Her spirit burns with defiance, a clawing, unforgiving commitment to a future she swore her people would see. No one would take that from her. No one.

His gaze locks with hers, and he looks utterly unimpressed by her denial.

It’s a fey sort of look, stripping and cold. It makes her feel small, and she hates him for it.

Bo-Katan snarls, letting herself hate, using it, fully aware of the _bajurii_ watching them, weapon at the ready to shoot the boy, whom he has realized is not _with_ them, and decides that _this_ is her chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> dini'la = insane  
> jaro = death wish / can also be something suicidally reckless or stupid  
> Cun oyay - our lives, from Cun oyay Manda - our lives for mandalore  
> Oya Manda - mandalorian call of solidarity  
> Bajurii/ bajuriise - training instructor/ instructors, training being both in the essence of battle training and in training-for-life.


	20. Chapter 20

Jango never stopped firing, but icy claws gripped his lungs as he watched the other _kom’rk_ spiral erratically towards the ground in an uncontrolled fall, halting his breath and withering at his soul.

He is so prepared for the inevitable impact and eruption of fire that he doesn’t quite register the abrupt turn of events, the other ship shooting back into the sky in a maneuver that is ridiculous in its finesse.

He blinks, and the vessel for a moment is simply disappeared.

And then its with him, matching his vector and Fett jerks the controls, and Naasade follows, like two birds of a flock in instinctual tandem, and the _Mand’alor_ swears up a storm, his viewport in the shadow of Naasade’s as they turn and carve through the sky. He banks, because he has to, and feels an electric thrill run through him, because he has no control over whether or not Naasade can match the maneuver, can predict where he’s going and what he’s doing, but the _jetii_ does, and Fett feels that cold vice turn into something a little more…energetic.

_Alright, vod, let’s see just how good you are_.

Fett grins, diverts more power to his forward thrusters, takes a breath, and pulls up, right into Naasade’s keel. Naasade’s ship arcs in tandem like they’ve done this a thousand times, and Fett is gleefully pissed off that he had no idea the _jetii_ could fly like this.

“ _Gar shabuir_ …” Fett mutters, diving right as Naasade breaks off to the left, like the wings of a shriek-hawk encircling its prey.

“ _Beg pardon, but was that invective aimed at me_?” Naasade snipes over the radio.

“ _You deserve it, you crazy_ –“ A _kyr’stad_ pilot replies, as they are still over the open comm, and cuts off swearing as three of his companions are shot down. One fighter peels away from the pursuit, diving, but the last two still make an attempt to route them. “ _Is that really the Mand’alor_?” The pilot asks. He sounds old.

“I am _not_ the one flying like an idiot.” Fett grunts, spinning his vessel to avoid clipping one fighter who either has too much daring or not enough skill. They still scrape paint, and Fish shrieks indignantly.

“ _There is nothing wrong with my flying_.” Naasade retorts defensively, to the both of them.

“ _What you do is not flying_.” The pilot jipes jadedly. “ _It’s suicide_.”

“ _I survived, did I not_?” Naasade clips dryly.

“ _Well…yes_.” The pilot grudgingly concedes, and Naasade hits the wing of the ship that nearly collided with Jango, sending it spinning towards the ground, where it digs a trench through several structures, but the cabin survives, and so does the pilot, though she swears invective so quickly the comm crackles to keep up.

“ _Fly with me, you traitor! Shoot them down_!” The last fighter snarls, swooping wide away from Fett and Naasade, and coming around the back side of the vessel that has disengaged.

“ _You want to challenge the Mand’alor_?” The old pilot speaks sharply to his younger, more impassioned counterpart. “ _Then_ you _challenge the Mand’alor. That is tradition writ in blood. You don’t ask me to do it for you, you young fool.”_

“ _Hu’tunn_.” _Coward_. The younger pilot snarls, and Jango spins sharply, watching the other vessel change direction, diving on the older pilot. Death Watch tolerated no traitors either. He sees Naasade’s ship wheel at the same time, for the same realization, as the _Kyr’stad_ starts firing.

Jango pushes the engines, watching the older pilot takes two hits and start leaking fuel, the pilot not seeming to react at all, which Jango doesn’t understand-

A single shot from the aft cannon, and the last _kyr’stad_ fighter loses its main engine, their dive loses all semblance of control, falling past the gliding vessel with a trail of smoke and sparking plasma.

It does not survive impact.

“ _Kandosii_.” Naasade compliments. _Well done_. “ _But if you would so oblige, we’d like you to land your vessel now._ ”

“ _Copy that_.” The old soldier grunts, and a moment later begins descent.

~*~

Obi-Wan feels the sudden threat of danger from two sides, and flinches, trying to figure out which way to turn. Bo-Katan’s weight slams into him, and the heat-sear of a blaster bolt slides past his throat, not quite a miss and not quite a hit, and it feels like swallowing fire.

He hits the ground, and Obi-Wan can feel a flare of concern from his master, who had no doubt felt his pain. Obi-Wan closes it off, his face being ground into the pavement, and focuses on his own senses and his problems here and now.

Bo-Katan grabs him by the hair and slams his head down, his eyes bursting with stars, and the mando above her orders her to get out of the way so he can shoot. She ignores him, and slams Obi-Wan’s head down again. The padawan bucks, throwing an elbow and managing to shove her off his back. He leaps to his feet, lashing out at Bo-Katan with a kick and yanking at the mando’s blaster with the Force. It lands in his hands and he fires three times – hitting both knees and one shoulder and watching the mando crumple with an inarticulate cry.

His kick caught Bo-Katan across the face, and she reels as she staggers back up to her feet, spitting blood, which drools down her chin. Obi-Wan’s balance slides skittishly, and blood runs into his eyes. He wipes it away with the back of a hand and points the blaster in her direction, the other trainees watching in shock. He swallows down nausea and blinks a few times. The hits to his head were bad.

“I _will_ shoot you.” He warns.

“I thought you were here to rescue me.” She snaps, looking ready to lunge again and test his claim.

“I didn’t say I’d shoot you _dead_.” Obi-Wan grouses irritably.

Another ship careens down, tearing through the encampment in a howl of noise and heat, and the trainees flinch and press against the wall as debris hits the yard, slicing right through the duracrete like it were no more resistant than cheese.

Her pale green gaze never leaves his, flinty and unyielding. He glares back at her.

She shifts her weight, and Obi-Wan tenses-

_Danger_.

Eyes widening, Obi-Wan spins towards the sudden warning – too late.

~*~

Ben clears the airfield for good measure as they descend to land, ensuring no one else might take to the air once they were down. The hail of plasma bolts deters most of those firing upon the as they come down, the ground defense finally having readied itself.

“ _I will give you one chance and once chance only to claim sha’kajir_.” Fett warns over the comms, as the wings on their vessels turn up.

Ben doesn’t lower his ships shields, waiting for a reply. A cease-fire, even once accepted, was no agreement of surrender.

“ _We’ll talk_.” Someone responds, terse and not nearly conciliatory, which makes Ben question their general idea of the nature of that speech.

Ben exits his vessel first, partially because Fett’s ramp grinds as it attempts to open, and is utterly unsurprised to be greeted by a line of blasters on the edge of the landing pad, dull sunlight gleaming off of impassive helmets, and smoke staining the air.

Some react visibly when Fett appears; some tense forward with their weapons, some tense back. The gold-edged sigil is vibrant against the dark armor, and no one here can mistake it.

Fett strolls forward, utterly undaunted, comes up to stand just ahead of where Ben has stopped himself, plants his feet, and removes his bucket to counter all doubt.

This _is_ Jango Fett, and he has survived, and he has come for them.

Some lower their weapons – some out shock, or fear – but most do not.

“You are no _Mand’alor_.” One steps forward, a white shriek-owl on his chest-plate for a scion of Clan Vizla. “Just the _kyr’prudii_ of a forgotten people. Of a _failed_ people.”

They call him _ghost_.

Ben laughs, because they have _no_ idea. It’s a wheezy, cracked sort of laugh, and he pulls off his bucket to get more air. It’s not really his bucket anyways, and he’s more at ease without it’s confine. Even Fett gives him the side eye for his hysteria, and he looks so damn much like Rex in that moment that it’s painful. Ben tosses the bucket to the side and takes in a deep breath, quelling himself. It clatters, and some of the less steady mando’s in front of them flinch.

Ben may be riding a little high on adrenaline.

He’ll apologize later.

“He was chosen.” The pilot who had landed with them makes his way over, having had to park further away to avoid one of the craters they’d made in the landing field. “Do you deny that?”

“Chosen by those who are dead. He has no living Clan, no House.”

“Oh, yes, that’s such a terrific argument.” Ben snorts. “Because that’s never happened before in the history of Mandalore.”

“Who the fuck are you?” The speaker demands scathingly. “Other than a thief?” They spit, jerking their weapon toward the discarded bucket, which clearly does not belong to him.

“ _Naasade_.” Ben says, stressing the title. “And who are you supposed to be?”

His name draws pause – few ever actually meet one who has stripped themselves of their identity. But the _kyr’stad_ is persistent, if nothing else.

“Itan Vizla.” The speaker retorts.

“And were you chosen by your people, Itan Visla? Is that what gives you the right to deny the _Mand’alor_ when he stands before you?” Ben inquires, his polite tone chill and unforgiving.

No one speaks for him, and the man does not dare make that claim. He himself is no _Mand’alor_.

Ben feels the word expand into sharp focus, his padawans pain becoming clearer and more pronounced, and Ben half turns, because his padawan feels like he is _behind_ him-

“ _Aruetii_!” Someone calls out, and Fett half-turns, not daring to offer his back to the firing line facing them. “I have something of yours!”

A unit of twelve supercommandoes – and Ben can both sense their danger as well as see the sigil on their armor, approach from their rear, dragging Obi-Wan and two other trainees with them. One a sobbing zeltron boy who can’t have been more than twelve, and the other a girl Obi-Wan’s age with yellow hair and eyes who was numb with the panic and desperation she was screaming into the Force. With them, Ben notes, is Bo-Katan, trailing behind and carrying a weapon of her own, along with two other older trainees, all burning with resolve and bright-edged passion bordering on obsession.

But Obi-Wan – they are literally dragging his padawan, hands shackled, who can’t seem to bear weight on his left leg. Blood colors half his face, dripping into his eyes and he blinks groggily. A number has been done on his face and there is a burn across his throat. Ben takes in each injury with detached, clinical assessment, standing there, watching them haul him to them. When they finally stop, a good ten paces away, they throw the boy down. Obi-Wan hits the pavement with a ragged grunt, unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back, and he sway when he tries to sit back up, woozy in a way Ben can feel and hissing in pain when he moves the left leg. He’s been shot, Ben realizes, seeing the wound on the back side.

They lift a blaster behind the padawans head.

“He belongs to me, actually.” Ben finds himself saying, his voice as detached as his assessment.

The two other children are also thrown down, and aim taken.

“Then more is the pity.” The supercommando says blithely, never taking his attention off of Fett to so much as glance at Ben. “He fought well.”

Past tense, a point about to be driven home, a bolt fired for no reason other than to impress upon them how very little _kyr’stad_ cares for their lives.

“Wait!” Fett lurches, hand outstretched as if to ward them off, but he doesn’t have that power. Ben lifts a hand too – towards Fett, a stalling gesture of two raised fingers, as casual as pausing some inane conversation over a politicians dinner table.

“No.” Ben says to Fett, and that _does_ give the supercommando’s pause, as they are pinned with his gaze. They glance uneasily at each other, and their leader glances at Ben, and Ben can feel him tense, through the Force, at what he sees there.

“You think you can convince me that I shouldn’t kill him because his life doesn’t matter?” The man snorts bravely, though his finger does stall on the trigger, and the other two aiming at the other children will _not_ fire first.

Obi-Wan, half slumped over again - and Ben does fear something dreadful about a concussion that severe - snorts at whatever he sees in Ben’s face or found in that statement that amuses him, and Ben hushes him down their bond, trying to soothe the pain he’s radiating. Obi-Wan’s head bobs and sags.

“I care more for his life than the lives of anyone else here.” Ben replies, his voice dangerously calm. For inside, he is _not_. There is a whisper shredding into a roar within his mind, scouring at his thoughts and building upon his emotions, forming thunderheads in the Force that press down on him like an immense weight. “The _Mand’alor_ gave you one chance to speak.” Ben says. “I am giving you one chance to live. I advise you to take it.”

Unimpressed, the man sneers a laugh.

_I gave them a chance_ , Ben murmurs in his mind, like a sigh. He doesn't even move.

The commando's finger tightens on the trigger and –

Ben just...lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Kyr'stad - death watch/ death society  
> vod - brother/sister, by blood or battle  
> gar shabuir - you bastard  
> kandosii - well done/nice job  
> sha'kajir - cease-fire/ truce for talks  
> kyr'prudii - ghost - lit. Death Shadow  
> aruettii- traitor


	21. Chapter 21

When Jango was a child, his mother would drop the shutters and shut down the big generator that ran the farmhouse when the big storms rolled through. His father would call him inside from watching the thunderheads build in the sky as they grew too dark and close. His sister would take his hand and pull him along, sneaking into their parents bedroom and pressing themselves flat to the floor, so they could feel the thunder as it shook the pre-fab plating beneath the rug, and listen to it roar. He’d loved storms then. He never used to understand the danger, though his mother’s brow would furrow grimly and the edges of his fathers eyes would tighten.

Then one year, the thunder crashed so loud and close he felt as though the house might collapse, and clung more tightly to his sisters hand. The lightning struck their fields, and the fields caught fire.

Storms were his first ever taste of devastation.

Naasade doesn’t move. He’s not even holding a weapon, but that calm, cold, pitiless look in his storm-colored eyes?

Jango tastes metal on the back of his tongue, and his ears pop.

He jams his bucket on his head, turns on heel, and _runs_.

He can’t quite tell how or where it starts – a spark near his shoulder, a flare in his hands, an arc from the ground? – but a blaze of green bursts from Naasade, and spreads, channeling more and more power in deadly coils of raw, unforgiving energy.

They snap up from the ground, crash down from the sky, cleave and fall to and from Naasade as the _jetii_ simply walks towards his padawan.

Jango bolts first toward the kids cowering in the crossfire, but Obi-Wan appears to have snapped his bonds and lunges for them first, throwing himself over the other two and cradling them against the ground. Jango jolts and flinches as lightning flickers just in front of him, and arcs over the padawan as if a shell of energy protected him from its fury. He dodges, not trusting himself to be safe from the storm, and won’t ever forget what it looks like when the lightning catches the _Kyr’stad_.

The air cracks explosively, the sensors in his helmet so overwhelmed he switches the optics off, which leaves him with a visor that offers limited visibility, but its better than being light-blind.

After the kids, his second thought is just to _get away_ , but he sees a flash of red as Bo-Katan bolts too, running flat out to escape destruction. Those who aren’t caught yet fire blindly and fail, half there weapons exploding in a heartbeat as if the power cell overloads the moment they decide to pull the trigger.

Staggering when a bolt nearly lands on his heels and scrambling to get ahead of it, Fett follows her, crushing heart-hammering terror beneath his will, and burying betrayal – the _jetii_ is what he is, and Fett will eventually learn to forgive him more easily for that, but that is not going to happen _right now_ – and focuses on the mission, on his purpose here.

The kidnapping of Bo-Katan.

~*~

Obi-Wan’s vision is swimming, full of light and sparks and watercolor illusions, and he can’t look up at his master without gagging on naseau, but he doesn’t actually need to look at the man.

He can feel him.

Master Ben is usually a contained presence in the Force, a whisper of power, wisdom, and control surrounded by indistinct warnings, both warm, illuminating, and dangerous, like banked coals waiting to burn.

That is not what he feels like now, and Obi-Wan can feel a protective fury simmering down the bond between them, threaded with an icy fear and overwhelmed by a _grief-rage-pain_ of memory and experience, power buckling towards him in the Force, like a gale being drawn in by the hurricane, a tide being pulled back by the tsunami – intent, waiting to be unleashed.

Obi-Wan becomes hyperaware of a pulse, thrumming in a wrist; light, on the gleaming edge of a barrel; the feather-light scrape of skin against a slender curve – none of these things he can actually see or hear, but all of them coalesce into one inescapable flash of clarity: A finger on the trigger, his life on the line.

Muscles tighten, and a reaction begins, igniting a charge, and everything held back by his master’s tight, indefatigable control –

A blitzing tide of power, for an instant, but an instant is enough. There is a flood in the Force, offering him, in that instant, clarity of vision, freedom from pain, and he wastes none of it. He snaps his cuffs with a thought - heedless of the crackles of electricity that snakes fire up his arms - lurches for the zeltron boys arm and yanks him to Obi-Wan’s chest before throwing them both bodily over the girl as emerald lightning rages around them, over them. Obi-Wan presses his face low to the ground, pinning them both beneath him, and tells the world that he is not there, he cannot be touched, they cannot be hurt.

The storm feels like pain, like suffering, like every scarring wound compassion beings to those who carry it, and it aches in Obi-Wan’s bones, but doesn’t touch them.

Others aren’t so lucky, and Obi-Wan flinches when they scream. The stench of plasma and superheated tar and crete blackens the air, and burnt flesh, and hot metal, and the wave of it spreads and spreads, taking on a life of its own. Once unleashed, such energy must be spent, and it will spend itself regardless of your consequences.

The padawan clings tightly to the two scared teenlings in his arms, and the ground, and waits it out.

Sometimes, all that can be done is to wait it out.

~*~

“Shared cabin with my first mate. She’s clean, and she keeps the crew in line. Ya won’t have ter worry about any funny business.” He offers, slapping the table for emphasis on how, truly, a good deal this is.

And on this scum infested reach of the far-flung edges of the outer rim, that is a pretty kriffing good deal.

Depa leans back, arms crossed, brow a stern line, but the light in her eyes just a hint playful. In front of her, between the drinks that reasonably could, at this point, have knocked out a rancor, lay the enticement of such grand offers – a shiny pile of unmarked platinum; Her guile-gotten winnings from high-stakes dejarek and valuable everywhere from Coruscant to Nal Hutta.

 _Don’t bargain at the first bite_. Depa thinks slyly, a lesson in politics from her master, surprisingly applicable at trade-station cantina tables across the galaxy. _Wait for them to sweeten the bait first_.

“Your own cabin, on a ship that don’t ferry Death Sticks under post-expiration refugee rations.” Another captain joins her table, munching on a pouch of dried jogan fruit he doesn’t offer to share. He smiles winningly, teeth stained purple from his snack.

“You haven’t even asked where I’m going.” Depa lifts a brow, leaning forward to drop her elbows on the table, caging her prize with her arms and nestling her chin atop her laced fingers.

“Hon-doll, for platinum, I don’t _care_ where you’re going.”

“Really, Kadtz?” Another spacer lopes up behind her recent addition, and drops their hands on his shoulders. “Because rumor has it she’s headed to Hribbsalta, which from here means going through the Slew. You, my old friend, don’t have much luck with the Slew, now do you?”

That, of course, was the catch worth the platinum. Depa had started her route on the Watchmen’s circuit by picking a region of space she was familiar with, and then working her way out and around the galaxy. Unfortunately, the closer she got to the edge of the rim, the more risky her take-it-as-comes navigational enterprise became. Unfortunately, their really wasn’t a better way to do the circuit. Sure, studies could be done of timing and hyperlane connections to calculate the most efficient route, but part of this particular mission was about relying on her own directive, and taking to the galaxy as the Force guided her. Trusting her instincts.

Regardless, she can’t get to the Hribbsalta system without crossing the Slew, which was several thousand parsecs worth of ice, dust, ore and gases from a swathe of dead star systems. Her wobbly route had taken her into some very old regions of the galaxy. Now, in an of itself, those conditions weren’t unusually problematic if you had the right navigational charts. Depa had acquired the charts.

However, the Slew was also, by all accounts, an absolute hive of purrgil activity, and the great travelers tended to obliterate unwary ships as they crossed paths in space or hyperspace.

“Rumor has it,” A womans voice interjects, as a slight figure approaches the table, swathed in a dun and gold robe with a cowl that draped her shoudlers and swept up and around her head, rather than fold over as a hood. “ that she’s a jedi. Hello, little one.” The woman pushes back her hood, revealing golden hair and sharp ears, and curling green lines around her face that Depa can’t discern between tattoo’s or natural born markings on the near-humans skin. Mist grey eyes meet hers and Depa can feel a gentle presence envelope her in the Force, as light as gossamer but as deep and reaching as the well of a star.

“Master?” Depa blinks, surprised by her presence as well as her power. The woman looks hardly a few years older than Depa herself.

“Call me Fay, little one. A padawan, are you – no – hmm…” She purses her lips, eyeing Depa up and down, and then her lips curve in delight. “A Knight-Elect. Now there’s a tradition out of practice. Lovely to see it revived.” She invites herself to the table, casually pushing Kadtz out of her way, which meant off his stool, though he’s too busy gawping in open mouthed infatuation to protest. She slides in next to Depa and beams down over her like they are cherished friends long removed. She reaches over and dances her fingers over Depa’s platinum. “Marvelous set-up.” She remarks approvingly. “Almost perfectly played.” She lifts a teasing brow at Depa’s company, one of whom sputters indignantly. “Unfortunately, dear, I have a favor to ask, though I do so hate to spoil the game.”

Depa is a little blindsided, but this is a Jedi Master, and she is duty-bound to assist.

“What can I do for you, Master?”

“Fay, please.” The woman entreats her. “And I need you to get me to Courscant, little one. I never though the day would come, but I believe I may actually have to go back.”

“To the Temple?” Depa furrows her brow, wondering why a Jedi Master might think they’d never return home as if it were some…. annoyance.

“To politics.” Fay mutters, aggrieved. “Though for the last several hundred years, the two have been by and large in-extractable from one another.” She sighs, deeply put upon – feeling, in the Force, deeply put upon - and then brightens at Depa’s bemused look, as if nothing about the padawan could be more endearing than her confusion. “Question for me, Knight-Elect?” She inquires.

Depa bites down on the inside of her lip, and Fay surprises her by taking hold of her chin, thumb just under Depa’s bottom lip, as if knowing exactly the gesture, though she could not have seen it. “Ah ah – never quell questions, little one. They are one of the only things worth having and one of the few things worth indulging.”

Depa tilts her head as Master Fay removes her hand, frowning as she commits those words and that wisdom to memory. Fay says them lightly, but in the Force, Depa can sense that she _feels_ them deeply.

“Yes, master. I have questions.” Depa admits.

“Fay.” The woman repeats. “ _Fay_.”

“No.” Depa replies primly, as it is _not_ the place of a padawan to be so familiar. “How would you like me to assist you, master?”

Mist grey eyes light, and the master laughs at her cheek.

“Preferably, by remaining just as you are.” She says, amused. “But in practicality…”


	22. Chapter 22

There is a sensation of near buoyancy, as the crackling energy disperses, finally having burned through enough of his emotional reserves, a cathartic relief, not unlike what he’d felt on Tatooine, two years ago.

“W-what weapon was that?”

“Him – it was him.”

“What _are_ you?”

Not all of them were ravaged by the storm he’d unleashed. Some had wisely dropped their weapons, or refused to fire. Some where just lucky. Emerald Lightning, he discovered, had immense power under intense focus – but very little control. Plo Koon had warned him. The technique was devastating – but, then, that had been his… not intention, exactly, but perhaps a consideration. He had wanted them devastated, for what they dared to do.

Ben folds to his knees in front of his padawan – he has very little choice in the matter. Plo Koon had warned him about that too – the technique was incredibly draining. He felt calm in the aftermath, relieved, but also utterly spent.

The survivors don’t seem to know what to do, just staring at him, too terrified to get up. Some had ducked, some had fallen, others knocked down – Ben didn’t really care, so long as they weren’t a threat.

“Obi-Wan?” Ben murmurs, laying a hand on his padawan head, feeling a tacky gel of dried blood in his hair. His skin is still humming with energy, and so is his padawans. A few last vestiges of power crackle between them, and Ben channels it into one brief spur of healing energy. His padawan groans and grumbles, muttering something unflattering, and shakily lifts his head. Ben helps him sit up, his own arms feeling heavy and leaden. The zeltron boy clings to Obi-Wan’s stomach, but the girl rocks back, jolting free and eyeing everyone – Ben, Obi-Wan, the _Kyr’stad_ – warily. The jedi hardly blames the girl. Her own supposed people had just about executed her to make a point. To destabilize and demoralize their enemy.

“Alright there, padawan?” Ben inquires, blinking to focus on his padawans face. Stars, but it’s been a long time since he felt this sheerly tired. Not weary, not exhausted, just a bone-deep want to sleep and recharge.

“Are you?” Obi-Wan retorts, a little slurred between his fat lip and undeniable concussion. Ben smiles and briefly cups his cheek.

“I think we’ll pull through this one.” Ben replies gamely, and turns his head to eye one of the _kyr’stad_ as they get up, before relaxing marginally – it’s the old pilot, who refused to fight the _Mand’alor_. He relaxes, but he still reaches back for the canister on his belt, and fetches his lightsaber, before passing Obi-Wan’s to Obi-Wan. The padawans hilt seems to tickle irritably against his hand, but Ben ignores it. He knows that blade isn’t his and he has no intention of usurping it’s ownership.

“ _Jetiise_?” The pilot gawks, seeing the action, and several other kyr’stad whip their attention towards him. Some lose color, some flush red.

“Did you think I was a wizard?” Ben inquires snidely, splaying a hand to reference the wreckage around them of smoking duracrete and sizzling-to-molten remains of beskar’gam.

“Did you think the True Mandalorian’s were the only people you betrayed at Galidraan?” Obi-Wan adds sharply, using his master’s shoulder as leverage to pull himself to his feet. Ben grunts under his weight, but isn’t certain his legs wouldn’t buckle if he also tries to rise, so he doesn’t. That would be embarrassing.

“They aren’t _jetiise_.” Fett calls, striding back through the smoke, and Ben glances up in surprise. Fett looks back at him, inscrutable behind his helmet, though Ben notices his visor is newly cracked, and Ben thinks perhaps they’ll have to talk later. “They are _Jetii Manda_. _Gar aliit_?” The _Mand’alor_ demands.

 _Who are you_?

“Ronin, Clan Murr, House Vizla.” Their pilot says, with the same bold, defiant inclination of mandaldorians claiming their identities everywhere.Without his bucket on, he has deep brown skin, amber-bronze eyes, and tightly braided locks threaded with silver.

“Do you speak for your Clan, Ronin Murr?” Fett demands.

“I cannot.” Ronin answers, standing rigidly proud, nothing frail about the age in his countenance.

Fett nods once, sharply. Ben blinks a few times to keep his eyes open, and Obi-Wan sways a little, even standing still.

“A shame.” The _Mand’alor_ remarks. “Still, I open my House to you.”

The pilot – and those watching, balk a little at that, but here is the Mand’alor before them, and he is not to be denied. And what he offers is not to be taken lightly.

“Then I close the doors of House Vizla behind me.” Ronin says formally. “I am Ronin of Clan Murr, House Mereel.”

Fett extends a hand, and they clasp arms, wrist to elbow, short and simple and _binding_. Such was the often the way of Mandalorian traditions.

Fett’s head turns faintly scanning the men and women around him, the living among the dead.

“Congratulations.” Fett remarks, tone cold and impassive. “You took the chance to live. Now you can leave, or you can serve. I’ll only make that offer once – _Kyr’stad_ , in the eyes of the _Mand’alor_ , are _aruetiise_. Death Watch has betrayed its bond to Mandalore, spilled the blood of her own people, and broken the _Resol’nare_. If you want death, you _will_ have it.” He warns, and without waiting for them to comprehend, to react, to respond, continues. “I want all the children here on these vessels within the hour. I want the medical supplies, the weaponry, and the rations. Everything else can burn, and anyone who calls this haven can come find the ashes.”

Ronin nods, and with that, Fett, in full command, turns sharply and strides over to Ben, who gives him a dry half smile and accepts the hand Fett offers. Only Fett does not simply pull him to his feet. The Mand'alor heaves him upright, Ben's vision blacking out momentarily, and then ducks, grunts, and throws the jedi master over his shoulder. 

"This man," he mutters at Obi-Wan, " is a fucking idiot, and deserves a tattoo to that affect."

"He-"

Fett doesn't even let his padawan defend him, cutting him off. "I'm going to bunk him, you are going to recieve medical attention, and then neither of you are allowed to do anything stupid for the next forty-eight standard hours."

Obi-Wan opens and closes his mouth a few times before pressing his lips together tightly, looking a little green, and then;

" _You_ chose _us_ for this mission. Speaking of - what about Bo-Katan?" Obi-Wan protests.

" I have it handled." Fett grunts, and that's about when Ben loses his grasp on conciousness.

~*~

"I'm awake!" Obi-Wan insists, forcing his eyes open as a hand lands on his shoulder. Fett grunts, unimpressed, but Obi-Wan can feel his concern in the Force, so his gruff demeanor loses much of its intended edge.

"You look it." Fett mutters, and sinks down on the edge of the bunk. Obi-Wan is pressed up against the bulkhead of his masters bunk, his master laying flat, his head resting on the padawans thigh. He hasn't woken up yet, and Fett won't let Obi-Wan sleep. Obi-Wan understood his reasoning of course - even he could tell he had a bad concussion- but he was still cranky about it. 

He was tired and his pain meds were wearing off, and the plast on the burn and the blaster wound and the flesh-weave where Bo-Katan had split his face open were annoyingly itchy. 

He was allowed to be cranky. Fett sighs a little, glancing at the both of them with a hard, pinched look in his eyes. 

The ships were packed to the point of stressing the atmosphere yield, but most of their passengers would be dropped off and picked up as soon as they reached the Mandalore system. This base had been only one of who knew how many Death Watch operated, used as a proving ground for young recruits out of Clans and Houses 'disloyal' to Death Watch, some willing, but many not, snatched up for conversion by opportunistic mandoa. It had been a rocky start, but Fett had commanded order and Fish had backed him up.

Supposedly, the airlock decompressing had been a malfunction. Obi-Wan wouldn't put it past the mandalorian droid to have scare tactic intimidation in its programming. It just seemed like something a mandalorian droid would have. In public, Fett had been utterly unmoved by the incitement of panic, only enhancing his image of authority and control. In private, he'd sworn out the droid all the way back to the source mines for its component ore. Even Fish had been impressed. Obi-Wan had giggled, and then panicked a little when he couldn't stop, and Fett had had to dope him with something. Their second stop hitting Mandalore space was going to be the nearest med center.

"Did you mean it?" Obi-Wan inquires, eyeing Fetts troubled countenance. Fett glances at him, mouth a flat line, brow tipping up. "Jetii Manda." Obi-Wan clarifies.

 _Jedi Mandalorians_.

Fett huffs. " Do I often seem to say things I dont mean, _jed'ika_?" He retorts.

" You call me an idiot all the time." Master Ben mutters, brow furrowing as he is drawn out of sleep. "You can't mean that."

Obi-Wan grins at that a Fett snorts.

"Oh, I mean it." He mutters, eyeing Master Ben as the jedi master feels one hand up the wall, finds the groove where the second bunk is bolted in, and pulls himself upright, all before managing to rub his eyes open.

"And here I thought we were friends." Master Ben sniffs.

"You nearly set me on fire." Fett accuses, his tone sharp. Master Ben's eyes clear, and he looks at the _Mand'alor_ , incredulous.

"I did _not_. You were perfectly safe."

"You could have _warned_ me."

"You could try _trusting_ me-"

"Stop." Obi-Wan pleads, his head aching and their souring emotions not helping. He wants the light banter back. It was much more soothing.

Fett and Master Ben both eye each other warily, a look that promises a more serious discussion later, possibly involving alcohol. For now, they take pity on the padawan.

"I meant it." Fett says, tone brooking no argument.

"Oh." Obi-Wan feels warmed. However... that tone is less than effective on him. "But we can't swear-"

Fett lifts a fist, quieting him with the battlefield hand-sign for 'halt'.

"Swear to this; " Fett commands. "Education and Armor, Self-Defense and Mando'a; your Order, and the Force." 

"Wh-"

"Obi-Wan." His master grabs the shocked padawans shoulder, his own emotions roiling and bittersweet, and nods. Obi-Wan swallows a few times, feeling suddenly shaky, nervous, and shy. Master Ben offers him a quiet, proud smile, and Fett waits, eyeing them both with growing impatience.

Obi-Wan takes a steadying breathe, the edges of the room spinning away from him.

He takes a second, and his master squeezes his shoulder, waiting him out.

" _Bajur bal Beskar'gam, N'aranov bal Mando'a; Cuun Ke'gyce, bal An'keliroya._ " 

They swear, and they swear together.

"So do I witness, and name you so; you are _Mando'ade Jetiib_." The _Mand'alor_ declares with finality.

 _Sons of Mandalore, of the Jedi Order_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Kyr'stad = death watch/ death society  
> Aruetii/ aruetiise = traitor/ traitors  
> Gar aliit = your identity/ who are you?  
> Resol'nare - the six tenants of Mandalorian culture which make you Mandalorian, sworn upon when you are adopted into mandalorian society.  
> Jed'ika - little jedi, term of affection.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: BLAAAURGH. So, shorter chapter, sorry. We did not get a chapter yesterday because i came back from camping to _Family Drama_ and I was in a destructive mood. I didn't want to take it out on the characters. Not entirely sure i succeeded today, but, more content.

Ben stands in the galley, running his fingers over the counter and grimacing at the result. There is a gritty blue dust _everywhere_. Including inside the water kettle, and all the dishes.

He can hear Fett’s boot-tread on the ships plating as he stalks through, towards Ben, and comes to a halt in the doorway. “Alright.” The Mand’alor mutters gruffly. “The _adiik_ have been delivered or are on their way back to their _buir_ , Tam Saxon is being shipped to Keldabe Prison, and your _verd’ibir_ is in the hands of the medical staff three levels below our hanger.” Fett reports, leaning against the doorframe.

“Bo-Katan?” Ben inquires, not having seen that particular red-headed teenager around yet.

“She’ll keep.” Fett grunts and Ben frowns, but doesn’t press. He eyes Fett, and Fett eyes him.

“Ah.” Ben nods, and turns, and shifts through the cupboards for the nearest bottle of alcohol. He comes up with a bottle of _tihaar_ , a strong, clear alcohol made from fruit. Not his usual tastes, but needs must and resources being what they were…

He comes up with two cups as well, but has to rinse them of more flaky blue chips. Fett moves over to the small table booth, sweeping off the table with one hand himself.

“They were stripping the paint.” Fett explains briefly. “Some of them were old enough to be in their own armor when Death Watch took them. It was repainted without their consent, and they were eager to correct it. They didn’t want to go home wearing the colors of _kyr’stad_.”

“Understandable.” Ben nods, joining him at the table and pouring. Fett takes his glass and Ben sips his, testing. The liquor is smooth on the way down and burns in his belly. He hums thoughtfully, tilting his glass and eyeing it with consideration. Fett snorts, and takes a stiff gulp of his own drink.

Fett lowers his glass to the table, gives Ben and look, and then his glass. Ben quirks a brow and drinks. Clearly, Fett didn’t want to be entirely sober, and he didn’t want to be not-sober alone.

Fett drinks again, Ben drinks again, and the _Mand’alor_ refills their glasses.

“You should know,” Ben murmurs, feeling his blood start to swim. “ that I may have a new liver, but I am _technically_ a recovering alcoholic.”

“Now I know.” Fett mutters, and tops off his glass again. Ben feels his lips quirk, and drinks.

When his own head is buzzing and Fett looks like he’s starting to relax into the flush the alcohol provides, Ben decides they may as well actually attempt to have that conversation they were getting drunk for.

“You felt betrayed.” Ben murmurs. “When I…” Ben snaps his fingers, for lack of a more poignant descriptor, and Fett scoffs a little bitterly.

“Yeah.” He mutters. “It’s one thing to know you’re a full master _jetii_ , and another to _see_ it.”

“And another to reconcile yourself with it.” Ben says quietly, feeling bitter rage and guilt and grief waft off the other man. “I was not at Galidraan, Jango Fett, and no one who was could do what you saw me do. It’s a technique few know of and fewer can actually use.”

“But they don’t need to do _that_ , do they?” Fett snaps. “They can do _enough_. And so can you.”

“And so could Obi-Wan.” Ben points out, and Fett tenses over his drink, looking troubled, his anger more uncertain, his confusion and shame more prevalent. His grief rising and falling, pushed aside and never dealt with.

“You wear it for the galaxy to see,” Ben says, tracing the outline of gold Fett had on his bucket in the air between them. “but do you ever actually recite your litany?”

It was a Mandalore tradition, to recite the litany of your dead and remembered each morning, like a prayer of sorts, to carry them with you into the next day. _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la_ – They were not gone, merely marching far away. Mandalore did not release the dead – they carried them within, ever forward, and memory was their immortality.

“Do you?” Fett retorts mulishly, and takes another drink. Ben turns his glass.

“No.” Ben says honestly. “There are too many names now to bear counting, let alone saying. But I remember all of them.”

“ _Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum._ ” Fett says, voice low.

“I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.” Ben translates, and lifts his glass. The plasteen cups clink dully, and they drain them. Ben pours this time.

“I can’t cure you of your fear.” Ben says, throat burning from the liquor. “Or your anger. So what can I do? What do you _need_ from me?”

“I fucking hate that.” Fett growls.

“What?” Ben lifts his brows, incredulous.

“The _jetii_ are some of the most dangerous _kar’oritsir_ creatures in the galaxy, and you still do-“ He flings a hand in Ben’s direction, disgusted. “That.”

“I don’t follow-“

“You still act so fucking _kind_.” Fett spits. “How can a man like you slaughter a battlefield like _that_ and still be so damned _soft_.”

Ben laughs, at first humored and then bitter as gall. He downs his drink, and Fett scowls at him warily.

“Imagine if I wasn’t.” Ben suggests bitterly, voice soft.

The _Mand’alor’s_ fingers curl around his glass, and something in his presence curdles – a man like Jango Fett can imagine exactly what a man like Ben could do if he weren’t so _soft_ and _kind_.

Ben sighs, slouching over his end of the table, and runs a hand through his beard, casting off misery, because if both of them wallow in it they’ll sink so far into depression they’ll probably never move again. Can’t have that.

“What the Jedi did at Galidraan was wrong, Jango, and I am _sorry_ for it.” Ben says openly and sincerely, and Fett looks back at him like he’s as dangerous as ever, and the _Mand’alor_ has been caught out unarmed and unarmored. “But you don’t have to forgive us for that loss. Not the Order, not me, not Obi-Wan. We can’t make up for your pain, or your sorrow. We can’t revive your dead.”

“I don’t want to forgive you.” Fett says harshly. “I want to stop _blaming_ you.” He takes a drink, tops it off, and drinks again. Ben tugs the jug with the Force, deliberately earning that dark glowering scowl, refills his own cup, and takes a swallow.

“And yourself?” Ben presses, knowing the shape of that cold guilt that riddled the other man, a furious self-loathing that he survived and they did not. That he could save himself but not someone else, and felt like a coward for it.

Even if there was nothing more he could have done.

Sometimes you give everything, and sometimes everything is not enough.

Fett’s cup hits the far wall with an unsatisfactory clank, spilled _tihaar_ glittering for the few moments it is suspended in air. The jug, following shortly after, shatters much more enthusiastically, and Fett throws himself out of his chair, brimming with uncontainable emotion, bound tightly by denial, refusal, _panic_ – all of them cracking him at the seams. Ben gulps the last of his drink and moves as well, standing, stepping into the clear.

Fett could not wield the storm at his fingertips, but Ben could still feel it, the room dense with charge, Fett a fuse on the cusp of destruction. The mandalorian’s brown face is flushed, jaw clenched, and his gaze bores into Ben’s, almost desperate in his need to _fight_ , because he was tearing himself apart.

 _This isn’t going to be pretty._ Ben thinks, and then he makes it an easy decision for the other man.

He tempts Fett’s rigid, failing control.

 _Some will not surrender to grief; cannot_.

Spreads his hands, lifts a challenging brow.

 _And cannot, without grieving, heal_.

Smirks.

 _Some will break themselves_.

Fett lunges.

 _And some must be broken_.

 _To seem whole_ , Healer Kala had told him one session, _is not always to be well. Sometimes, being whole just means being unmalleable. You cannot_ , she had informed him with pointed dryness, _build without first breaking_.

Ben grunts, his head slamming when he hits the durasteel floor, and sees spots. He grabs Fett’s wrist to stop a blow, jerks a knee, and manages to plant a foot on the _Mand’alor’s_ stomach, throwing him off with a kick. Ben jumps back to his feet, hot-blooded and ready.

 _I just have to make sure he doesn’t break_ me _first_. The Jedi Master thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Adiik - child/ren  
> Buir - parent/s  
> verd'ibir - soldier/student or padawan  
> kyr'stad - death watch  
> kar'oritsir - stars-cursed (gods-damned)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for physical violence in this chapter.

Obi-Wan is released from the med center in the morning, after a night of observation with his head in what the medical technicians affectionately called a ‘concussion cradle’. He still had a bit of a limp, but the flesh-weave on the blaster wound was coming along nicely, and in a few more days he may still experience some cramping, but quick treatment meant he may not even have much of a scar. Obi-Wan traced the uneven line that still marred his face. It _was_ fading, as the healers had promised, but he was more than happy not to add to the collection.

The moment he sets foot on Fett’s ship, he knows something up. To the first, he can feel an odd pervasive sense of sheepishness through the Force, smothered over a _mess_ of chaotic emotional echoes. To the second, Fett and Master Ben have clearly been scrubbing out the inside of the transport, and cleaning was very low on the current list of priorities. Which suggested they were either avoiding a different priority or covering something up. To the third, once Obi-Wan climbs the scaffold, Fish starts screaming at him from the cockpit, a high, ranting, unintelligible wail, which inspires identical shouts of “Shut _up_ , Fish!” From the two men Obi-Wan was looking for.

Already preparing a frown, Obi-Wan finds them in the galley. His master is at the table, sipping tea. Fett is leaned back against the kitchen bar, legs stretched out before him, working over a blaster rifle with a cleaning rag and a fine brush-comb.

It’s a level of nonchalance that just seems _too_ innocent, and Obi-Wan can feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck pricking up.

Obi-Wan studies them. His master smiles a greeting and Fett grunts a more or less pleased sounding “ _Jed’ika_.”

Obi-Wan is unconvinced. He’s absolutely certain that his master did not have splinted fingers and that Fett did not have four stitches in his cheek the last time he saw them.

Frowning, Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “What did you _do_?” He demands.

“Padawan?” His master lilts a brow, feigning mild, baffled curiosity.

Narrowing his eyes at his master, Obi-Wan takes two strides forward and nudges Fett’s boot with a toe, revealing the partially hidden score mark in the floor that could only have come from a lightsaber. Obi-Wan lifts his brow higher.

“Ah.” His master says.

“ _Ah_.” Obi-Wan repeats sarcastically.

Fett snorts at the both of them, and Obi-Wan turns his narrow-eyed look on the _Mand’alor_ , who looks back up with rich brown eyes and just… _shrugs_.

“Seriously!” Obi-Wan exasperates, dropping his arms from their pose and spreading his hands, because he is _concerned_. “What did you two _do_?”

“We were working out some issues, Obi-Wan.” Master Ben explains, without actually explaining anything. “No need to trouble yourself about it.”

Obi-Wan looks shortly at his master, and then Fett, and back again. Over the cleaning oil and the tea and the solvent they used when they scrubbed out the paint flakes and who knows what else, Obi-Wan can smell the tang of the fruit alcohol he’d found in one of the cupboards a few days ago, which suggest they spilled some somewhere and it likely ended up between the plating of the floor. So they’d been drinking, though he could probably have guessed that from the slightly blood-shot eyes the both of them were sporting.

So they’d been drinking. And fighting. While _he_ wasn’t around. So probably not an argument. Which meant…a _Discussion_. Issues, his master had said. Working out some issues. Except as far as Obi-Wan was aware, his master and Fett actually got along pretty darn well and they weren’t in conflict over training him. They also understood each other on a level Obi-Wan just couldn’t. So if it was an issue _between_ them, he didn’t-

Oh.

 _Those_ issues.

The Jedi issue. And Galidraan.

Obi-Wan looks between his master and Fett again. “So….you’ve got them worked out then?” He asks.

“Progress was made.” His master says optimistically, while Fett lifts a hand, turning it so-so.

“Right.” Obi-Wan sighs dryly. “I’ll just leave that to the two of you then.” He moves towards the table, and his master preemptively pours him a cup of tea. Obi-Wan takes it and sips, earning a tisk of disapproval from his master, who found drinking tea while standing or walking around to be improper. Most master Jedi did, actually. Tea wasn’t a beverage in the Temple so much as a ritual. Obi-Wan shoots his master a look and then turns towards Fett, who was cleaning the scope of his rifle.

“So.” Obi-Wan prompts. “What about Bo-Katan?”

~*~

The skyline has changed.

The last time Fay had been on Coruscant, the Jedi had only just begun to call it home, and you could still see the mountains in the natural preserve. They were gone now, buried under the ever-skyward reaching cityscape.

Still, it had its beauty. The sky shifted in kaleidoscope colors every morning and evening, and traffic, always busy, buzzing, moving, created rivers of light in repulsors and signals, weaving between sparkling towers of silver and bronze and transparisteel. Deep, deep down, the world was tired, but around it was a weave of life – chaotic, harmonic, messy, some light, some dark, all clinging to the tapestry they made, trying to change it in their favor. The planet was colder than she remembered, and the noise… something unnerving, there was now, in the noise of the planet in the Force.

But perhaps that was merely memory. Fay hadn’t been on a world so densely populated since….since the last Great War.

“Apologies ma’am, your codes don’t appear to be active in our system.” The Temple Guardian tells her, anonymous beneath their uniform and faceplate, if unusually cheery for one of heir caste. “We’ll have to sign you in under a visitors pass.”

Fay smiles. “I had been afraid of that.” She replies with good humor. “I have been out of contact with the Temple for quite some time.”

The Temple Guardian pauses, tilting their head in a slightly non-human mannerism, in spite of their humanoid figure.

“Is there a problem?” Fay inquires, curious of their reaction.

“No… just remembering the last jedi who said that to me.” The guardian replies. “Do you have a sponsor?”

Fay smiles. “Knight-Elect Depa Billaba, currently in the field. She sent notice to the Temple on my behalf, so I hope someone will be expecting me.”

“That would be a matter for the Council, Master.” The Temple Guardian says, somewhat apologetic. “I’ll send for an escort.”

“Master Yoda, if he’s available, please.” Fay nods with a playful smile, running fingers through her hair to tease out an itch. “It has been too long since I last saw my grandpadawan.”

~*~

“She’s in there?” Obi-Wan asks, glancing at Fett dubiously.

“Yes.” Fett replies, voice clipped with affront at the look Obi-Wan gave him.

“It’s _welded_ shut.” Obi-Wan says emphatically, gesturing to the industrial produce transport crate sitting innocuously in their cargo hold. Hanging back on the scaffold, leaning over the rail, Master Ben huffs a quiet laugh.

“It has ventilation.” Fett shrugs. “And I wasn’t taking any chances. She _is_ Mandalorian.”

“She’s been in there for more than a standard day.” Obi-Wan says, trying to make Fett see the picture.

“She needed time to cool off.” Fett looks blandly back at him, and Obi-Wan gives up. If Fett thought Bo-Katan spent a single minute of her cramped captivity _cooling off_ , well, then he seriously misjudged the fabric of the young womans character. Obi-Wan had known her for less than a day and as far as he was concerned – well, Fett was about to figure it out. Grumbling, Obi-Wan ignites his lightsaber, slashes through the welded seal, and steps back.

And waits.

The three of them watch the container, and Fett, predictably, loses patience first. Obi-Wan glances up at his master, who just smirks ruefully and turns a hand in a ‘what-can-you-do’ gesture. Obi-Wan sighs, takes another step back, and crosses his arms as the Mand’alor steps up and kicks the box over.

As soon a it tips, the lid comes off with explosive force, skittering across the hold, and Bo-Katan launches out. She staggers a little, legs wobbling, sets eyes on her target, and dives full tilt at Fett, throwing herself at him.

The _mand’alor_ grunts, skidding a few steps back, and Bo-Katan catches him in the chin with an elbow, then the ear with a fist, and that’s as far as she gets before Fett drops a little, scoops her up around the waist, and slams her down, pinning her to the floor.

“Get off me you _cetar besom hu’tuun_!” She jerks and struggles, but Fett keeps her arm locked painfully, and puts one hand on the back of her head, forcing her face down against the grating. She can’t catch any leverage, not without breaking something.

“Calm down.” He instructs flatly.

She goes still, immediately limp. Fett catches Obi-Wan’s eye, and Obi-Wan shakes his head. Fett smirks, and lets her go.

Ten seconds later, he’s slamming her back onto the floor, pinned in the same position. She lets loose a furious cry of rage, panting for breath, and goes still again.

This time, she waits until she’s on her feet before attacking him.

“You’re going to break her rib.” Master Ben calls down warningly, as she gets slammed a third time.

“I am not the one in control of this situation.” Fett calls back pointedly.

“Fuck you!” Bo-Katan spits.

Master Ben sighs, and catches Obi-Wan’s eye. _Tell me about it, master_. Obi-Wan thinks dourly.

This time, she goes for his groin. Successfully. And Fett punches her square in the mouth in retaliation. She staggers back, trips, lays hands on the discarded lid, and comes up swinging. Fett blocks, protecting his head, and the sheet of metal slams into his shoulder, earning a grunt. Bo-Katan drops it and kicks out his knee before lunging for his rear holster, and the blaster he kept there. She gets a hand on it, and Fett snaps a palm into her elbow, breaking her grip. She retaliates immediately, clawing at his face, and Fett grabs at her, and throws her into the wall.

The blaster ends up under her chin, pressing her jaw up.

“Your father trained you well.” Fett remarks.

She spits in his eye – literally. “I have no father.” She snarls.

Fett growls and swipes the spit off his cheek, the blaster never wavering. He lays his other arm across her collarbone, pinning her more securely when she looked a little like she might find a way to bolt.

“No father.” Fett remarks. “No Clan. No House. What do you have, _kyr’stad aruetii_?”

Her nostrils flare in anger, her posture pushed upwards by the muzzle of the blaster, forcing her onto her toes.

“I have Mandalore.” She snarls. “And I’m no _aruetii_! How _dare_ you!” She shoves at him, though she can’t budge him.

“Dare? I am the _mand’alor_!” Fett snaps back.

“No you’re _not_!” She hisses furiously. “There is no _mand’alor_! He’s dead! He died when you abandoned us!”

Fett sets his jaw, but denies nothing. Flinty, pale green eyes narrow, and she struggles to kick out. Fett drops her, stepping back and stepping out of range, but pinning her with a hard, warning glare. He’ll let her say her piece.

“ _Ni’duraa_! We _needed_ you!” She rages, hot-tempered over desperation and revulsion. “And you ran away. What _Mand’alor_ abandons his people? You don’t have the right.” She shakes her head viciously, denying him.

Obi-Wan bites his cheek, their emotions acidic and lashing out, and works on shielding himself in the Force, reaching for his master for steadiness.

“And you do?” Fett questions, voice dripping with vitriol. “You think Death Watch is the answer?”

“Death Watch is strong.” Bo-Katan squares her shoulders, defiant.

“That isn’t the kind of strength you want, _adiik_.” Fett warns.

“It’s the only strength Mandalore has anymore.” She says bitterly, glaring at him.

Fett scoffs. “And you called _me_ a coward.”

“I am not a coward!” Bo-Katan rages, stalking towards him. “Do you know what I have done? What I have had to do? You _failed_ us. And we paid the price! My _father_ –“ She cuts herself off, snarling wordlessly in anger, and shoots him a venomous look. “I’m doing what I have to do! For Mandalore! I have made sacrifices. You have no right.” Her voice wobbles, and Obi-Wan leans in, ready to step in, because she is _hurt_ -

He flinches back when she launches herself at Fett again, fury covering any perception of vulnerability, and hate flooding out of her like icy claws that lashed at him. She grabs Fett by the wrist, and yanks, twisting, kicking out at his stomach and Obi-Wan cringes, waiting for the sickening pop of dislocation, but Fett pushes into her weight, using the wall as leverage, and flips himself, twisting her grip back around. He shoves her roughly and she skids, and then scrabbles back-

Fett catches her across the stomach, lifts, and slams her back down onto the floor again. She gasps, air driven from her lungs, palms slamming onto the plating in frustration. And then she jerks, getting just enough leverage, and manages to kick Fett in the face.

“ _Osi’kyr_!” Fett reels, blood running down – his nose isn’t broken, but she appears to have torn out the stitches in his cheek, and torn the original wound wider. Growling, he punches her in the sternum, and she hits the deck again with a brittle wheeze.

 _This is bad_. Obi-Wan thinks nervously, looking up to his master. He knew, of course, that a Mandalorian intervention would be rough, but this…this is _bad_.

Fett leaps to his feet and plants a boot on her chest, and she glares hatred up at him. He looks down, smearing blood away from his mouth, and studies her with a cold, impassive look.

After a minute, Bo-Katan can’t stand it.

“What do you _want_ from me?” She demands, confusion breaking through the tide of anger, desperation welling into fear as her rage was thwarted, leaving her spirit less shielded, but also less blinded by the haze.

“I had a sister.” Fett says, smooth voice unreadable. “Mereel found me. Rescued me. _Kyr’stad_ found her.”

Up on the railing, Master Ben tenses, and Obi-Wan freezes in place, both curious and intensely concerned, feeling as if they were not meant to be privy to this confession. But Fett glances at neither of them, his attention fully on Bo-Katan, who squirms nervously, pinned more by his unforgiving stare than by the pressure of his boot.

“The Death Watch didn’t kill her.” Fett says quietly, irrevocably. “They just took her from herself. One piece at a time, until there was nothing left at all. And they kept taking.” His voice shifts, and he swallows. His eyes harden. “That will _not_ be your fate.”

“What are you-“ Bo-Katan protests, lost and uncertain, and Fett cuts her off.

“ _Ni Jango, gai Fett, aliit Mereel, Mand’alor be te Mando’ade, jor’chajiir gai bal manda_.” He declares, and her eyes widen in a way that make her seem much younger and more innocent.

“Don’t you dare!” She screeches, beating at the boot pinning her down.

 _I, Jango of Clan Fett, House Mereel, Mand’alor of Mandalore, call upon my name and soul_.

Obi-Wan whips his head up to look at his master. ‘ _He isn’t_!’ Obi-Wan projects loudly, shocked.

‘ _It appears he is_.’ His master replies, distantly amused.

“ _Bo-Katan, naas ade, naas aliit; ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad.”_ Fett vows _. “Gar cuyir Bo-Katan, gai Fett, aliit Mereel, bal naasad kelir naastar bic_.”

 _Bo-Katan, child of no one, of no house; I now know your name as my child. You are Bo-Katan of Clan Fett, House Mereel, and none may take it from you_.

“You can’t _adopt_ me!” Bo-Katan shouts, her voice ringing off the walls.

“So do I witness.” Master Ben says from above. “And it appears he _can_.” He adds wryly. Fett glances up to glare at him, and Master Ben smirks, shrugging.

“No! _No_. I reject-“

“Do you really want to do that?” Obi-Wan interjects, before she can _say_ it. Her jaw snaps shut sharply, and she pierces him with a freezing cold look of loathing. “You’ve already rejected one _buir_ , Bo-Katan. And this one is not a Duke. He’s _the_ Mand’alor. Rejecting him means rejecting everything he represents. Means rejecting Mandalore.”

She blinks furiously, staring at him as she takes that in, and then glares up at Fett with watery eyes. “Why?” She demands through clenched teeth. Fett steps off her chest and crouches down, eyeing her with a lifted brow. She pushes herself up to sitting, the movements jerky and hostile.

“You want to be the Mand’alor, Bo-Katan Fett?” He asks, voice light and dangerous. “You can claim that title when you _take_ it from me.” He says. “And if you want to take it from me, then you better watch and learn how to be better than me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:
> 
> cetar besom hu'tuun - low-life boot-licking coward  
> kyr'stad aruetii - death watch traitor  
> Ni'duraa - you disgust me!  
> adiik - child  
> osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise and dismay  
> buir - parent/father/mother


	25. Chapter 25

“You’re wobbling.” Quinlan teases.

“Shut up, Quinlan.” Siri huffs, red in the face as she tries to bring her body into stillness, her balance into harmony.

“One hand!” He sing-songs, shifting his own balance easily, his entire body braced on his palm, one leg half bent above him, the other a straight line. He reaches over to prod her with his free hand, grinning. On his other side, Aayla is still trying to manage to get herself up on two palms, and is mostly just nose to toes with herself, her butt in the air.

“Master Tholme, I’m afraid-“ Siri huffs. “ - to tell you-“ She growls, body shaking as she tries to both maintain balance on her palms and still lean away from Quinlan. “ – that your padawan is going to shortly be short of a hand.”

“What a tragedy.” Master Tholme remarks dryly. “Will he live?”

“That – _Quinlan_!” Siri shrieks angrily as she topples over, and Quinlan laughs, his frame shaking, but maintaining his pose. " That remains to be seen!” Siri remarks, having tumbled over and righted herself. She stands, walks over, and shoves him. Quinlan rolls, still snickering, and flicker-quick reaches out and snags her ankle, jerking her off her feet. She hits the ground with a bruising thud and a yelp.

“Quinlan.” Master Tholme warns softly, because that had been more mean than playful.

“You can’t take his hand!” Aayla whines, her basic much improved, if still heavily accented. “He needs to draw with me!”

Quinlan takes a breath, prying himself away from the addictive feel of Siri’s anger and pain, and turns towards Aayla’s pouting face. “I’d learn to draw with my toes.” He promises.

Her lekku twitch. “Hmm. Okay.” She says, turns to Siri, and nods her permission.

“Hey, wait!” Quinlan backtracks.

“Master Tholme?”

Everyone looks up to see Shmi Skywalker in the arch of the entryway to the small training chamber. Her typically fair skin was brown as a nut, her dark brown hair gleaming with auburn and golden-brown highlights from a surplus of sun, and she seemed much healthier and more filled out than she had been when she left them for Shili. Her whole being seems to glow, and very little of it has to do with the Force.

“Lady – Padawan Skywalker, can I help you?” Master Tholme inquires, rising to his feet and offering Quinlan and Siri a quelling look to behave for a minute, if they could _possibly_ manage that.

“Shmi.” Shmi corrects. Master Tholme nods lightly, frowning in mild consternation that Quinlan truly feels for, because the last time the pair had argued, she’d curtly corrected him to address her as Padawan Skywalker. They actually bickered a lot, but Quinlan thought it was kind of cute, in an older people kind of way. Hardly anyone could catch his master off guard, but Shmi Skywalker did so _all_ the time.

“Shmi.” Master Tholme says, when she looks at him with her sharp brown eyes and waits. Quinlan leans over and nudges Siri, lifting a brow. Siri’s brows draw together, giving him a ‘ _What_?’ sort of look. Quinlan frowns at her, sighing aggrievedly, because can’t she _keep up_?

She scowls at him, crossing her arms stubbornly, and Quinlan thinks he finds her a little cute as well. He could coo. He does, and she punches him in the arm.

“ _Kark_!” He mutters. “ _Siri_.” He whines.

Shmi takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and takes a step into the room. He lightsaber hilts turn against her waist, and Quinlan admires the twin hilts, and the locking notches that suggest they snap together to form a staff. He wonders what she fights like.

“Master Ti gave me an instruction, for when we returned to the Temple.” Shmi says steadily, something about her presence in the Force brimming in anticipation. “To do one thing I wished to do, for no other reason than to do it, without being afraid of the consequences. Just one thing – to let go of fear.”

“And how can I assis-“ Shmi takes three steady strides forward, lays a hand on Tholmes cheek, startling the old master into stillness, leans up on her toes, and presses a chaste but unhurried kiss to his lips.

Siri gasps, and smacks Quinlan’s arm as if he isn’t already paying attention. Quinlan thwaps her back, eyes glued to his Master’s dumbstruck expression, and the equally shocked if complicated twist of emotions he’s got going on in the Force – not missing the fact that one of them was simple pleasure.

 _Oh, Master_. Quinlan thinks.

Shmi drops back down to the flat of her feet, looking up at Master Tholme, smiles – a sweet, serene Skywalker smile - draws her hand back down, and walks away, leaving Quinlan’s Master staring after her.

Quinlan watches in fascination as his Master’s face turns red with a blush, the man utterly rooted to the spot.

Aayla, unable to contain herself any longer, squeaks in delight and runs up to Master Tholme, tugging on his sleeve. “She kisses you! She kisses you!” The little twi’lek crows.

Quinlan’s master looks down at the youngling incredulously. “She kissed me.” He agrees, voice wondered and dazed and a little afraid, which is how he felt in the Force too, a tug of war between soft joy and tugging apprehension.

Delight blooming in his own chest, Quinlan breaks down and starts cackling.

“ _Quinlan_.” Siri and Tholme both sigh, with very different inflections, and Quinlan snickers harder.

~*~

“Fish! Fish! _Fish_! _Buir_! _Buir_ – Fish is home!” A skinny-legged, chubby lekku’d little red-skinned twi’lek boy runs full tilt across the packed-dirt lot where they’ve set down, shrieking in delight. Fish, the slightly malevolent astromech they’ve come to know and be wary of, zooms down the loading ramp, whistling just as shrilly, and rockets towards the boy. They collide with a hard ‘clang!’ and Ben then understands fully why the boy was wearing a beskar safety helmet.

“ _Buir_! Fish says he fought in battle! _Buir_! _Buir_ , Fish says they crashed your ship!”

“ _What_?!” A parent finally appears, shoving a rusty door aside and emerging from a large work-shed set off from their housing complex. The homestead appeared to operate some sort of mechanical repair – judging by the large piles of scrap and broken vessel inside the protective barrier wall around the property. The woman – human – had welding goggles shoved up over her short, dark hair. Her eyes are dark and slanted, and her skin olive-toned and smeared with soot. She’s wearing a protective apron and heavy gloves, but the bulky garments don’t disguise the fact that she is also well-rounded with pregnancy.

“We did _not_!” Ben calls, gesturing towards the ship behind him as proof.

“We did not what?” Obi-Wan questions, coming around the wing of the transport, having set down his Kom’rk class vessel, Fett following shortly, having had to land his own. The mechanic eyes the two kom’rk, grimacing at the Death Watch paint job but appearing to appreciate the quality of the machines.

“Crash my ship.” She calls, striding towards them.

“But Fish _said_ -“ The boy protests, clinging to the droid’s dome.

“Never you mind what Fish said, Sio.” His mother chides, eyeing the droid, which beep-boops innocently. She points the cutting torch she has in hand warningly at the astromech, and it whines.

She turns on Fett. “You brought that droid back in one piece.” She mutters, crossing her arms and eyeing the lot of them, her eyes narrowing as she watched Bo-Katan slink out of the hold of her hip. She’s been stripped of her armor, leaving her in her bodysuit and some maintenance overalls that Obi-Wan had used to sneak around the Ruudovar station. The ill-matched clothes, the lack of protective gear, and the impressive palette of bruises around her face make her look troubled and waifish, but the look in her eyes is still cold and spiteful. Fett’s face is an equally colorful palette, and he now has six stitches in his cheek. They are all, in fact, quite a mess.

“Your _ad’ika_ made me swear to.” Fett retorts, crossing his arms at her but keeping one eye on Bo-Katan, who hadn’t accepted her situation just yet, instead seeming to have merely internalized her hostility as she paced mulishly around the confines of the ship.

The mother sighs, resigned. “ _Mand’alor_.” She greets, one fist crossing her chest.

“Lin Betoya.” The Mand’alor nods. He gestures to his collection of red-heads. “Bo-Katan Fett, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ben Naasade.”

Lin Betoya scrunches her brow, pointing her welding torch skeptically in Bo-Katan’s direction, and an uncertain finger in Ben’s.

“Don’t ask.” Fett pleads shortly. The woman shrugs.

“Fair enough.” She says. “You staying for dinner, _Mand’alor_?” She inquires.

A stomach growls loudly at the prospect, and everyone glances in Bo-Katan’s direction. She reddens slightly, looking frustrated by the betrayal from her stomach. Lin snorts a laugh.

“You’ll stay.” Lin decides, jerking her torch towards the _Mand’alor_ and brooking no argument. Fett nods, and Ben smiles, catching his padawan’s eye.

‘ _Hey, I wouldn’t argue with her either_.’ Obi-Wan projects to him.

“I have a request to make of you.” Fett says, as Lin turns to shoo her son off to tell his father they’d be having guests. His words are formal, his tone calmer, which ironically better suits his smooth voice. This is not Jango Fett so much as it is the _Mand’aor_ , and it’s interesting for Ben to observe him this way. From what he can tell, it catches Obi-Wan _and_ Bo-Katan’s interest as well.

Lin Betoya turns back towards him, her free hand moved to support her back with the motion.

“ _An ibac ni cuy, par ner Manda’lore.”_ She says. _All that I am, for my king_. “What would you ask of me?”

Fett’s stilted expression softens into a more pleased smirk. “We’d like to use your families forge.” He says.

She blinks, and then huffs. “Hardly a favor, _Mand’alor_. Unless you’re asking for the _beskar_ too.”

“We brought our own.” Fett replies, the Mandalorian woman’s smile inspiring a feeling of calm from Fett that Ben rarely senses and is glad to witness.

“Then you’re welcome to the forge, _Mand’alor_. Now if you really want a favor,” the woman lifts an unimpressed brow, gaze rising from him to the vessels behind him. “You’ll have me fix that _awful_ paint job.”

“I was going to pay you to do that.” Fett says wryly.

“You don’t have to pay me to fight the _Kyr’stad_.” Lin Betoya says, her tone sharpening. “I may not fit in my _beskar’gam_ and I may not be blessed with a blaster, but there is more than one way to engage in this war, _Mand’alor_. I’ll do the paint.” She insists.

Fett frowns, opening his mouth to insist right back that he _will_ pay her, and Ben leans over, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are you really going to argue with the pregnant woman wielding a cutting torch?” He says lightly in Fett’s ear. Jango hesitates, eyeing his opponent up and down, and concedes to yield on that matter.

Lin eyes Ben up and down, glancing between him and Fett.

Ben smiles blandly at her and she narrows her eyes, turning away and muttering.

“One of you would be appreciated in the kitchen.” She says over her shoulder. “And someone needs to assist me with the rigging. I find it a little difficult to manage at the moment.” She adds, waddling a little as she walks.

Ben shares a glance with his padawan, silently debating who is going to take what while Fett takes Bo-Katan to the forge.

‘ _You are not helping them cook_.’

‘ _You’ve never complained about my cooking_.’ Ben sends back questionably.

‘ _It’s not your cooking, master. It’s your taste! I’d like to still have mine after dinner_!’ The padawan argues pointedly.

‘ _I thought you enjoyed Mandalorian cuisine_.’

‘ _I do_.’

‘ _This_ is _a Mandalorian household_.’ Ben points out.

‘ _Yes. And there is a difference between an enjoyable spicy burn and the blistering concoction you poured over our noodles this entire trip. I know this now, because Bo-Katan is born and raised Mandalorian, and she can barely stand it_.’ Obi-Wan crosses his arms.

Ben frowns. ‘ _I rather think the flavor will be up to our hosts, padawan_.’

‘ _And_ I’ll _leave it up to them_.’ Obi-Wan retorts. Ben pauses.

‘ _You think I wouldn’t_?’

‘ _You’re charming when you want to be_.’ Obi-Wan projects dryly.

‘ _I feel like that was an accusation, padawan_.’ Ben lifts a brow.

His padawan smirks, and Ben huffs. “Fine, you _brat_. Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Buir - mother/father/parent  
> beskar - mandalorian iron  
> ad'ika - little boy/ son - little girl/daughter  
> kyr'stad - death watch  
> beskar'gam - mandalorian armor


	26. Chapter 26

“ _Sush’gar_!” Elav Betoya shouts up at them from the ground, hands bracketing his mouth, deep red skin vibrant against the dull brown of the sandy earth beneath him. “ _Jetii_!” The twi’lek calls, waving an arm, lekku bouncing. “They need you!” He points towards the shop, and Ben waves back his acknowledgement. The twi’lek smiles, revealing sharper teeth in a pale flash, and heads back towards his house. The yard is lit by dome lights now, the sun long having set, and Ben imagines it’s probably around the time Elav has to wrangle his son into going to bed.

Dinner had been delicious, but comparatively mild for Ben’s tastes and perhaps his padawan did have something to say about that. Ben did not complain about the quality of his food when it came to sustenance, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have certain things he certainly enjoyed _more_. Elav, as it turned out, was a chef, and ran a restaurant in partnership with a few other members of the Betoya Clan.

“I didn’t marry him because he’s pretty.” Lin had remarked, earning a sly grin from her husband and a giggle from her son.

Obi-Wan had helped the family wash up after, and then come to assist Ben in blasting the old paint off the blue and black _kom’rk_ so that Lin could apply her talents. They’d been at it for a couple hours now, and were nearly finished.

Ben jumps off the roof of the vessel, turning to watch his padawan hesitate. Obi-Wan’s leg was still healing, after all, but, in a moment, his padawan reconciles himself, trusts in the Force, and jumps as well, expertly cushioning his own fall. Ben smiles, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, sending a little pride his padawans way, and together they trek up to the massive work shed and follow the noise to the forge.

Furnaces and bellows, after all, were never quiet, no matter how advanced.

“You can’t give him a solid piece, he’s too small!” Lin Betoya argues, one hand on her lower back, the other reaching over and snatching Obi-Wan the moment he enters the room. “He’ll grow too much.” She insists, gesturing a line across Obi-Wan’s collarbone, and the breadth of his shoulders that he’ll likely grow into. “Split collar, split breastplate, pauldrons, lower vambraces, and a guard for the injured hand.” She says. “And greaveboots.”

“And greaveboots.” Fett agrees, eyeing Obi-Wan up and down.

“What?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Your armor.” Bo-Katan says snidely, glowering at him. Obi-Wan glares right back at her, and Fett clears his throat warningly at the both of them. Bo-Katan sets her jaw stubbornly, and looks away sullenly. Obi-Wan’s scowl softens into a frown of frustration, and then he is distracted again when Fett snags him by the collar and drags him over to a crate.

The crate that they brought with them, of the slag remains of the _kyr’stad_ armor they’d picked up from that landing field.

“And you.” Lin grabs Ben by the elbow, and the jedi has to stop himself from jerking right back out of her grasp at the unexpected touch. She turns his elbow a little, eyeballing his reach and his shoulders and the set of his stance. “Upper and lower vambraces.” She remarks with a practiced eye. “Pauldrons. Flex chest-plate, no breastplate. Greaveboots, armored gloves. Fett claims you can’t do a full suit for want of flexibility, but I think that applies more to your _verd’ibir_ than to you.”

“You would be surprised.” Ben smiles warmly.

She draws her brows together. “Should we split the chest-plate then?”

“No, a flex chest-plate served me well in the past.” Ben admits, earning a sharp glance from Fett, and a hesitant but curious one from Obi-Wan. “We merely shortened the width of the flex panel and added an additional to improve the range of motion, and lengthened the span between the throat and sternum on the central plate.” Ben gestures on his chest, flagrantly ignoring those two piercing looks. “And on the lower vambrace I prefer a strike guard.” He gestures to his elbow.

Lin lifts a brow, so does Fett, and the _Mand’alor_ crosses his arms.

“Let me guess – caps on the greave-boots too?” She inquires, referring to the knee guards.

Ben nods. “Tight seam.”

“Tight seam? Loose seam has more maneuverability.”

“Tight seam on the outer faces, loose seem on the inner.” Ben corrects himself. He can feel the tension of the force of will with which Fett is _not_ asking questions he dearly wants to ask, and Ben appreciates it. “If you could do a similar fit for my padawan, that would be appreciated.”

“On the guard and caps, sure.” She nods. “But he’s young yet for a full kit. I’ll do what I can, but give him a few years and we’ll have to reforge.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement.” Ben nods.

“Good.” She flashes a smirk. “Then you can dig through that slag too and find me something work with while I set the casting forms – oh, and think about paint.”

Ben nods, turns towards the crate and coincidentally the rest of his companions, and then full-body pauses. He tilts his head curiously. “When did I actually agree to this?” He inquires.

Obi-Wan snorts at him.

“Padawan.” Ben sighs.

“Fett threatened to give you a tattoo.” Obi-Wan says cheerfully. “This is preferable.”

Ben pauses, considering, and eyes Fett, who shrugs. “This _is_ preferable.” Ben agrees.

~*~

Adonai Kryze pinches his brow and sighs slowly. He is tired. Not physically, but spiritually. Just… _tired_. There is a crowd waiting for him outside, where he will walk alone across an empty stage and deliver another eulogy, another vigil, another memorial for the recent devastating attack on a civilian target. A public, civilian target. A historical monument.

Adonai hates the Death Watch with a passion, more and more every day. He’d thought, once, perhaps he could understand their reason – but this? They destroyed pieces of the history they swore they were fighting to protect, they killed innocents, and for what? To make a point? A statement?

Bitterly, Adonai gave his enemies credit for their cruelty – they proved that _he_ could not protect his people.

He received more and more opposition from within his own governance, more resistance from his allies, less faith from his supporters. The Old Clans were ill-content to fight under his banner, but couldn’t decide who they _would_ fight for (and never would, without a real _Mand’alor_ ), the New Mandalorian’s refused to rally to a fight at all, and blamed him for invoking conflict in the first place, as if he had much of a choice, and the Neutral Houses would not deign to assist anyone beyond their own. If Death Watch knew how weak his position was internally, Mandalore would fall tomorrow. But for now, he maintained the image of control, of solidarity and strength, and it kept them from being _too_ bold.

Or it had.

“Duke Kryze?”

“I know.” Adonai acknowledges, steeling himself to walk out the doors ahead of him. It’s times like these he misses Maline, but his love had never been one for a life of politics, and he’d known it from the start. She embodied the passion and lust for life all Mandalorian’s sought, and followed wherever life’s passions lead her. Away from him, unfortunately, but they’d never promised each other forever anyways. Still, she had given him two beautiful daughters – and he misses them fiercely too.

 _Cun oyay_. Adonai thinks, letting it sink into his bones and cast aside melancholy. _My life for Mandalore_.

He strides across the atrium and pushes open the gilt doors, and walks out alone to face the crowd on a barren stage. Swathes of purple and grey, red and black fill the crowd – memory and mourning, honor and justice. He steps up to the podium himself in black and pale lilac – justice and tradition. It hasn’t been politic to wear his armor when making public speeches for quite some time – not if he wanted to bridge any sort of understanding and cooperation from New Mandalore, but he wears it today over his _Jorad’alor_ finery, so that his people can see – not all of it, just a shoulder-plate and pauldron with a collar-guard, his upper and lower vambraces, his armored gauntlet – the band of mourning grey running down the dark blue, edged in the lilac purple of House Kryze. And the sigil of Mandalore, in burning gold.

He may fall from grace – that feels inevitable now.

But he will not go down without a fight.

He steps up to the podium, a thing of silver and transparisteel so delicate it may well be holographic, and every screen around the square and up the street lights up with his image, focusing in. The crowd murmurs, a few indistinct shouts can be heard that don’t quite reach his ears as words, and then the audience quiets.

“People of Mandalore.” Adonai begins, the words uncomfortable in his mouth, though they carry across the crowd with calm, clear certainty, and none of the faults he feels. “A shadow has fallen across our people, and it grows. You know what I speak of – you have heard these words before. We are none of us strangers to loss. To grief. To violence. But familiarity is no solace in their wake, and each tragedy is no less wounding, carries no less meaning, deserves no less justice. It is our duty to honor and remember those who are marching beyond our reach. It is no easy duty to perform, but neither is it one we must carry out alone.” He pauses, fingers curling around the edge of the transparisteel dais before him, and tries to make himself believe those words. He takes in a breath to speak, and in that single beat of quiet, catches the echo of a sound that is familiar. He lifts his eyes to the mid-morning sky, pale blue marbled with wispy clouds. Adonai taps his wrist-comm for his lieutenant in charge of this morning’s security. Death Watch has attacked a memorial service before, but Adonai had thought he made sure they regretted that mistake last time. Were they brazen and careless enough to try again?

He gets a tap-signal back that is not exactly an _all-good_ response.

_G-LUCK-SIR_

His pause draws out, the hairs raising on the back of his neck, and the crowd starts to take notice of the long silence. The whine of a jet-pack becomes more noticeable, and Adonai can make out more than one bystander shifting to put on their bucket.

They are above him, coming over the top of the stronghold, descending on the stage behind Adonai. The Duke holds out a hand to the audience, a caution against movement, a stall against fear. The images on the holoscreens all swerve to the three newcomers.

Adonai recognizes the Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi from his monochromatic sense of style, but the armor he’s wearing over it is new – a deep jade green, the color of duty and promise, and on his shoulders the sigil of the Jedi Order done in silver - for truth and integrity.

The man beside him, then, must be his master, his armor a deep brown – though whether for valor or in keeping with the fashion of the Order, Adonai can’t be sure – and he has more than a sigil. Oh, it’s there, done in ivory on his left pauldron, but he also has two burning suns blazing across the right side of his chest plate, one centered a soft white and becoming an almost yellow soft-orange and copper, which is new beginnings to commitment bordering on zeal, and the other centered in a low, light red for perseverance, working through the bright red of honor and into the deep scarlet of defiance. Down his right arm, the deep brown is strafed with a speckling whirl of lighter shades, almost reminding Adonai of tornadoes…or…a sandstorm.

The figure opposite him, though, was a mystery. A woman, by the style of her armor, wearing a dark blue bodysuit under black armor – reliability and justice – though all her armor plates were edged in white - new beginnings. She was wearing a bucket, her visor trimmed in teal – and teal was for healing, for growth or nurturing. Medics often wore teal bodysuits, new _buir_ often wore teal on their vambraces. But it was also for those who had started over to make something of themselves. Her pauldrons were gold, as was the armor on her gloves, but she bore no sigil to claim that vengeance. Instead, curling around her chest-plate, winding up her vambraces, even edging the greaves on her shins, were the stylized Lilies of Mandalore, meant to symbolize the prosperity of its people.

He assesses them in an instant, and all three of them lift a fist across their chest in salute. Adonai opens his mouth to speak, because he doesn’t understand why they are here-

Another crackling pulse from a jetpack, and a fourth figure clears the roof and descends, ladning in front of his three companions, and his armor leaves nothing to guesswork. Behind the Duke, the crowd is shocked into silence, watching in rapt attention.

The _Mand’alor_ removes his bucket, handing it to the woman to hold, strides across the stage, and offers his arm to Adonai.

“ _Jorad’alor_.” He says, and the podium catches his smooth voice, and amplifies it across the plaza.

Adonai reaches out and clasps his arm, wrist to elbow. “ _Mand’alor_.” He acknowledges.

The whole world seems to take a stuttered breath, and Jango Fett smirks like the bastard he is.

Adonai finds himself lowering his head, face curling around a grin.

They release their grip and step apart. Fett glances back at his companions, and the woman passes Fett’s bucket to Kenobi beside her so she can remove her own.

And it’s Bo-Katan.

Adonai can’t help his fists clenching, and grinds down brutally on the urge to go to her and pull his daughter into an embrace – because she _isn’t_ his daughter.

She had divorced herself from his parentage. Bo-Katan had never quite understood his position, never understood why he could not simply act the way she believed he should, step up to fight the Death Watch without reservation, and they’d fought bitterly over the years. She was much like her mother, but Maline had embodied a reckless good-will, whereas all of Bo-Katan’s passion seemed to have coincided with a temper very much like her fathers.

So Duke Adonai Kryze does what he has always done – the hard thing, the honorable thing, the right thing. She won’t meet his eye, so he buries all that paternal yearning and looks back to the _Mand’alor_.

Fett quirks a brow, but there’s a gleam of sympathetic understanding in his gaze, and he tilts his head towards the crowded square.

Adonai offers the _Mand’alor_ the room the step up to the podium. Fett, whose smirk hasn’t wavered, puts a hand on Adonai’s shoulder and presses down hard enough that Adonai has no choice but to fall in line with him. They step up together, side by side, and only then does the _Mand’alor_ address his people, as if his statement had not already just been made.

“Take heed, _Mando’ade_.” The _Mand’alor_ states. “Duke Kryze speaks truly – we do not carry our burdens alone. We are _Mandalore_ , and this is what makes us so. _Oya Manda_.”

It’s not a wary cry, a chant, not from his lips – it is a declaration; calm, but resolute and unyielding.

“ _Oya Manda_.” Adonai whispers, too low for the amplifiers to pick up.

“ _Oya Manda_!” The first cry in response sounds like a child, and Adonai can feel his lips tug lightly towards a smile. Children were brave – in the way that they were reckless, and probably did not understand the true gravity, but perhaps that did not matter here – the child was only the first.

“ _Oya Manda_!”

“ _Oya Manda_!”

“ _Oya Manda_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Sush'gar - call for attention: hey, listen you, oi!  
> verd'ibir - soldier/student - padawan  
> buir - parent/mother/father  
> Jorad'alor - duke/ duchess - voice of the people  
> Mando'ade - sons and daughters of Mandalore/ children of Mandalore/ all mandalorians  
> Oya Manda - call of mandalorian solidarity.
> 
> Armor:  
> Gauntlet - armored glove  
> vambrace: lower - wrist to elbow, upper - elbow to shoulder  
> pauldron - shoulder pad  
> chest-plate - across the collarbone and around the neck  
> breast-plate - collarbone to the bottom of the sternum  
> greave - ankle to knee  
> greaveboots - armored boots that go up to the knee  
> Strike guard - that bit on General Kenobi's armor that juts out from his elbow off his lower vambrace  
> Caps on the greaveboots - kneepads, again see General Kenobi's armor
> 
> Adonai Kryze - see Kanan Jarrus' one-sided armor. Basically that.


	27. Chapter 27

“Knight Gallia.” Mace remarks, as she strides up to stand next to him, arms folding as she stops, eyes ahead on the landing dock.

“Master Windu.” She greets cordially.

Mace waits, but she says nothing further, and the vessel they’re waiting on is taking sweet care in docking, which suggests an unfamiliar pilot.

“I’m here on behalf of the council.” He informs her, to warn her that her business may have to wait. She was a very busy woman these days, and he’d dislike to have her waste her time.

“I assumed as much.” She replies curtly, glancing his way. Mace takes a breath, uncertain, and then simply nods, letting the matter rest. He doesn’t want to offend her by trying to press the point. That never ends well for him.

The _kom’rk_ settles into it’s berth, and the ramp descends shortly after, with Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi strolling down, almost leaning into each other’s space as they went back and forth.

“ – didn’t tell me that you could _fly_ like that! If my skills don’t meet your standards, master, it’s hardly my fault when apparently I get sent to sim training despite my master being an _expert fighter pilot_ -“ The padawan’s voice rises an octave.

“Shall we compare skills, padawan?” His master cuts him off loftily. “Let’s talk about your swearing, since you clearly don’t learn that practice from _me_ -“

“I was undercover!” The padawan sputters.

“And it was _quite_ convincing.” Master Naasade retorts, his face lit by a mischievous smile, Padawan Kenobi grinning ear to ear – and then they spy who is waiting for them on the dock, and both of them pause, glance at each other, and then drop immediately into polite serenity, folding their hands together in front of them.

“Master Windu, Knight Gallia.” They say together, and then bow, in such precise unity that Mace feels his skin crawl a little. He glances at Knight Gallia, but she has no glance to spare for him, busy levelling the pair with a raised brow and an utterly unimpressed look.

The Master-Padawan pair both catch that look and wince in the same manner.

“Master Naasade.” She says pointedly, and he reaches up to scratch sheepishly at his beard.

“I promise it’s not intentional.” He says meekly.

She gives him a flat up-and-down look, lifts a brow at his armor, then at his face, then at his padawan, turns sharply, and walks away.

Padawan Kenobi laughs nervously. “We deserved that.” He says.

“Oh, we deserve something alright, Obi-Wan.” His master replies ruefully. “But that wasn’t it. That was just a warning.”

“Ahaha – oh.” His padawan blanches a little.

“ _Oh_.” His Master repeats, resignedly amused.

“Master Naasade. Padawan Kenobi.” Mace greets them both, earning their focus.

“Has the Council something for us already, Master Windu? Or have I managed to earn a reprimand in my absence?” Master Naasade inquires, good humored. He casts a sly glance at his padawan. “I wouldn’t put it past me.” He says cheekily.

His padawan is less amused by his master’s contention with the council, but rolls his eyes anyways, and then freezes.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” His master sighs, laying a hand on the boy’s. “Master Windu _is_ polite company.”

“Sorry, Master.” The padawan flushes. “Apologies, Master Windu.”

“Forgiven, Padawan Kenobi.” Mace replies dryly. He is no stranger to Padawan’s and their turbulent relationship with decorum. Depa, in her younger years, had believed him to be far too dour, and attempted to break his stern countenance at every turn. It had made her diplomatic training _interesting_ , to say the least. “And I’m here to make a request of you on behalf of the Council.”

“Personally.” Master Naasade notes, a gleam of sharp intellect lighting his eyes. “You’re here personally to make a request. It couldn’t be issued over comm?”

Mace…hesitates. Truth be told, it could have been, but he had been… contemplative, of late. With Depa on solo mission, soon to be elected to knighthood, with the release of information, and the drawback from the Senate, he had been very contemplative. And what he had contemplated was this – he feels he has judged this man before him far too harshly, and that he, as a member of the Council, has treated him unfairly. When he first came here, this man looked at him like an old friend, and now… now Master Naasade is cautious of Mace’s mere appearance, all outward humor aside, his presence in the Force had shrunk in and pulled back the moment he set eyes on the young councilor.

He is here, in person, because truth be told he would like to make amends.

“I haven’t actually stepped outside the temple in over a week. I needed the walk and the fresh air.” Mace says. Padawan Kenobi looks between the councilor and his master skeptically, but Master Naasade just snorts lightly.

“I’d hardly call the air on Coruscant ‘fresh’.” He remarks, lips twitching back towards a smile, and that is different – the man was almost always pleasant, but Mace had rarely observed him to actually appear happy. “What is this request?”

“In light of the recent changes within the Order, the Council going to call for delegations from the Corps and the other Temples to meet here on Coruscant, to coordinate some sort of coherency out of this…” Mace gestures, and Master Naasade nods thoughtfully. “We’d like your padawan to be present for these discussions as one of our de facto experts.”

“Obi-Wan?” Naasade prompts. The boy frowns thoughtfully, but nods assent. Mace is not unaware that the padawan had grown irritable at the constant recall to the Council Chamber to explain repetitively the decline of the Order. Mace recognizes now that it was not merely that Kenobi was several times pulled from classes or training – or meals – but that he was pulled into the middle of dour and often _depressing_ debates among the Councilors. They had asked much of the young padawan, and he’d received very little in the way of reward, or even reprieve.

“I believe I can manage to _not_ dash him halfway across the galaxy when the delegations arrive and while they are here.” Master Naasade comments.

Mace nods, relieved, and glances down at Padawan Kenobi. “It may relieve you to know that the same request has been made of Padawan Skywalker.”

The boy brightens a little.

“As for you, Master Naasade,” Mace continues, earning a slightly surprised look. “ your most recent escapades have generated such a fuss that I am _begging_ you, on behalf of the Council, to agree to coordinate with Master Drallig on a course of lessons. The Battle Master has been hounding the Healers and the Council to lift your combat-course restrictions. He is now backed by half the senior class of padawans and no small score of young Knights. Apparently,” Mace emphasizes, eyeing the pair of them dubiously. “ it is one thing to be _born_ Mandalorian and another to _be_ Mandalorian.”

“It is.” The pair agree readily. Mace frowns.

“If you say so.” He mutters. “But that clip they keep playing on the holonet has apparently shifted your public image within the Temple from ‘terrifying’ to ‘badass’, between which there is also, apparently, a distinction.”

Both Master and Padawan lift their hands in a so-so gesture.

“They’re not necessarily mutually exclusive.” Padawan Kenobi informs him.

“Hn.” Mave grunts, unimpressed. He looks back to Master Naasade, and the man is smiling quite charmingly at him. Mace immediately feels like this is a bad idea and he should perhaps retract his words for self-preservation.

“I’d be _delighted_ , Master Windu.”

And yes, there is that sinking feeling.

“Great.” Mace mutters.

~*~

 _Thwa-clack_!

 _Thwa-clack_!

 _Thwa-clack_!

Hardened wooden rods spin and smack together with jarring force in a simple, repetitive pattern.

“Again.” Jango commands. Bo-Katan glowers at him, but it’s not so hot and uncontrollable, that look. It’s harder, more calculating. Still grudging, but not as _hateful_ when aimed in his direction.

 _Thwa-clack_!

 _Thwa-clack_!

 _Thwa-clack_!

She grunts, the rod clattering to the floor, and Jango grins a little, even though half his hand just went numb.

“Pick it up.” He instructs. “Again.”

His comm-link chimes and he lifts a hand to stall her, starts to turn and pauses. He looks back at her, eyeing her stance and the look in her eyes, and steps back before turning away. He still doesn’t fully trust her not to attack him from behind when he turns away. If nothing else, she certainly knows an opportunity when she sees one, and never hesitates to press her advantage.

She _is_ well trained, but her instincts are rough. She could be better. She could be so much better. But it’s not Kryze’s training he faults for her lack of judgement. Death Watch cracks people at their pressure points – they are very, very good at it. And it makes impressive soldiers – driven, passionate, stubborn beyond belief, the kind who don’t surrender, no matter the cost.

The kind who won’t hesitate to kill and die for their cause.

But it doesn’t make good commanders. Good leaders.

She has a lot of potential to work with – but it’s definitely going to take _work_.

He collects his comm-link and answers the call – it’s his comm-link, tied to his bounty-hunter contacts, and not the one Duke Kryze had given him.

“Jango Fett.” The man that appears almost has Fett dropping the comm – or throwing it. His hand twitches for a blaster he isn’t wearing and the man in question isn’t even actually _here_. “I understand you may not wish to so much as speak with me, but I have a humble request to make of a man of your talents and… reputation.” Master Dooku, of the Jedi Order, bows his head.

Jango has to loosen his grip or risk cracking the comm. This man has starred in his nightmares and in all his dreams of vengeance. Jango has imagined vividly, emphatically, all the ways in which the Mandalorian could kill him, and all Jedi like him, for years – and sometimes dreams about it still. But less. And the nightmares… the nightmares still happen, but they’re blurrier, and when he wakes these days the sadness is heavier and the anger colder, no longer a burning fuel in his veins. Not towards the Jedi, at least. But hate is a seed that takes root, and is hard to rip out. Jango knows who is to blame for Galidraan. The man before him is not faultless, but through Naasade, Jango has learned to recognize that neither are the Jedi – as a many or as individuals – without their own tormented conscience either. And this one?

He is the other half of the symmetry in the tragedy that was the massacre at Galidraan. Both of them spun around each other by the governor, and by the _Kyr’stad_. Both of them used, both of them bloodied, both of them betrayed.

Jango last saw him over four years ago on that wretched battlefield, but the man looks to have aged a decade, dark silver hair gone almost completely white, the lines of his face more severe, the look in his eyes starker and dimmer, even through holo. Jedi, Jango understands, through their lifestyle and their connection to the Force, age slowly, even among their own respective species’. They don’t age like that.

Bo-Katan is watching him, her curiosity a sharp, needling thing, and Jango shoots her a warning look. Her brows go up in affront and she crosses her arms. Jango ignores her.

“I’m listening.” He says.

“Given recent events, I understand your… profession may no longer suit, but if you cannot assist me, I hope you may direct me to one of equitable skill who can. I am seeking someone who has proven most difficult to pin down, and the intelligence I have collected leads me to believe a…delicate extraction may be required to alleviate her of her present circumstances.”

“And would this be a willing extraction?” Jango questions bluntly, half his attention, despite himself, still on his new, volatile daughter.

“That remains to be seen.” Master Dooku replies, voice thinning, making him sound older, more worn, and almost… Jango studies the man’s face again, but the Jedi’s expression is as impassive as stone.

“Who is the target?” Jango questions, debating with himself on whether or not he even wants to entertain the idea of taking the job. He’s not going to run off on Duke Kryze, but one last job might be just what he needs. It would be a good chance to test run working with Bo-Katan, without Mandalore on the line, without throwing her right back against the Death Watch.

Master Dooku lifts his chin. “My former Padawan Learner, Komari Vosa.”

 _Ka’ra curse the Force_. Fett swears internally, staring at the man. Jango wasn’t sure whether or not he’d go in on believing in some great, mystical Divine Guidance, but sometimes…the universe just _really_ seemed to test him.

 _Komari Vosa_.

Yeah, he remembers _her_ too.

~*~

“Obi-Wan!”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan cheers, catching sight of the boy, and Anakin bolts towards him, taking Jax along by the hand. Obi-Wan feels his master take a discreet step aside, so as not to be party to the impact as the Padawan drops down and they slam full-tilt into him with a hard ‘oof!’

“Ow!” Anakin exclaims, pushing back from Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Your armor hurts!”

Obi-Wan blinks at him. “Anakin, it’s _armor_.” He says, and then, getting a good look at the boys, grins. “Look at you!”

Anakin was brown as a nut, his hair washed a bright gold by the sun, his eyes a more searing blue. Jax, meanwhile, had hazel highlights in his brown hair, and was utterly mottled in thick freckles that Obi-Wan would never have suspected the boy of having, as fair as he’d been when last the padawan saw the youngling. His dark brown eyes gleamed in his face, and the boy smiled just as brightly to see him as Anakin did. Obi-Wan reached out and tugs on their hair.

“I’m glad to have you back, but I have to say you looked like you were having a lot of fun on Shili.”

“ _So_ much fun.” Anakin breathes out. “I’m gonna miss the artists and the fruit and the dancing and our new friends and the elders told some really cool stories and-“

“Breathe, Anakin.” Obi-Wan chides lightly. Jax nods in sage agreement, and Anakin sucks in a huge gulp of air.

“And the warmth.” He adds quickly. “It’s cold here.”

“That’s because the Temple is climate controlled, and Shili is a little closer to its sun.” Obi-Wan says. “I’m sure we can find you something to help warm you up. Maybe some black wool to hold heat a little better.” He suggests, tugging on the boys white-and-yellow tunics. “Perhaps a vest.”

Anakin frowns speculatively, and looks at Jax. They stare at each other a moment, and then the both of them shrug. “Okay, Obi-Wan. Can you give it to me as a present?”

“A present?” Obi-Wan lifts a brow, puzzled. It was only a simple garment, easily procured, and he wasn’t sure why-

“Your birthday is coming up.” Anakin says matter-of-fact. “Master Ti said so. And I don’t have a birthday. So I want to share a birthday with you, and you can be fifteen and I can be five.”

“Oh, I _can_ , can I?” Obi-Wan questions.

“Yep.” Anakin nods smartly, the effect slightly ruined by his giggling grin that breaks out a moment later when Obi-Wan tickles him.

“Well, thank you _so_ much for letting me turn fifteen, _Grand Master Anakin_. You’re _so_ gracious.”

The boy peals with laughter, trying to hide behind Jax, who gets caught in the crossfire.

“Stop!” Anakin shrieks brightly, turning heads. Obi-Wan stops tickling them, ruffling Jax’s hair as the boy catches his breath. Sheepishly, the padawan sends an apologetic look to the startled pair of masters waling past, who had been unprepared for the high-decibel assault on their hearing. One master nods, frowning sternly. The other rolls their eyes and keeps walking. Obi-Wan doesn’t think it’s fair that _he’d_ never be allowed to roll his eyes at _them_. Not if his master had anything to say.

Speaking of…

Obi-Wan shifts, scooping up one youngling under each arm, and moves to catch up to his master, who had meandered over to Master Ti and Shmi.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin says more quietly, his tone more serious, in spite of the fact that he was draped rag-doll-like off of the padawans arm.

“Hm?”

“ _Can_ I share your birthday?” He asks, looking up with big, uncertain eyes. Obi-Wan looks back down, caught for a moment, and blinks. He glances at Jax, who looks up at him in patient expectation that seems far too wise for his young face, and then back at Anakin.

Truth be told, Anakin was likely five already, and probably had been for some time. It was hard to tell – he still fell behind his peers in size and weight and often emotional development, but that was to be expected, coming from where he had. Shmi had done her best, and her best had been better than most could have managed in slavery, but there were still lingering trials and difficulties left by that brutal beginning.

But, Obi-Wan figures, what did that really matter?

It certainly didn’t matte to Anakin, and, in the long run, it didn’t really matter to Obi-Wan either.

“I would be honored.” Obi-Wan murmurs sincerely, looking back at the boy. “We Jedi don’t celebrate much for birthdays.” Obi-Wan warns, as a brilliant, sweet Skywalker smile blooms over his face. “But… I think sharing it with you would make it special.” He says softly.

“ _Really_?” Anakin asks shyly.

“Really.” Obi-Wan insists, and Jax claps for them both, his Force presence trickling out delight.

Obi-Wan adjusts his grip on them both, because they are squirmy little creatures threatening to be dropped, and bounces them up so that they can scrabble and cling to his shoulders like overgrown kowakian monkey-lizards. Jax digs a heel into his tight and Anakin pulls too much on his tunic, tightening his collar uncomfortably, but such was life with younglings. He got used to it. “Now then, I have to go congratulate your mother.”

“Huh? Amu? Why?”

“Well, birthdays are special to moms too, you know. It’ll be five years since you came into the world, but it also marks five years since she _brought_ you into the world. That’s rather special for her too, don’t you think?”

Anakin and Jax’s eyes go wide, and they stare at each other for a moment.

“Woah.” Anakin blinks. “ _Amu_ brought me _into the_ _world_.”

This is not, apparently, something the younglings have previously given consideration to.

“Yup.” Obi-Wan replies, nodding.

“Wow.”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“Er…”

…. _Oops_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Kyr'stad - Death Watch  
> Ka'ra - stars; also mythologically the spirits of past Mand'alors, watching over their people.
> 
> Author: Woot! Don't worry, the next installment will be up soon. Maybe not by tomorrow, on account of a work situation, but my posting schedule shouldn't suffer too much!
> 
> Also, some of these comments for the last few chapters (and, you know, this whole entire massive series that we are five months and over 300k words into) are just... life. You all are amazing. I couldn't do it without all this positive energy I get from the feedback.


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